


It Started to Rain

by xcutfromtheteam



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Johnlock, Kidlock, Light Angst, M/M, Sherlock and John meet as kids, Teenlock, sherlock and mycroft's childhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcutfromtheteam/pseuds/xcutfromtheteam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his mother falls ill, his father stops caring, and his brother starts to drift from him, Sherlock Holmes feels as though everyone has left. That is, until he meets John Watson.</p><p>(On hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brother, If You Have The Chance

**Author's Note:**

> God help me, I started another one. It's a good thing I have the social life of a rock. This should be a pretty long story, if I'm correct, as I'm starting everyone out as really young and plan to take it into adulthood, so the lead-in to the real Johnlock will be slow (we don't even meet John until the next chapter). Sorry. I'm looking at about ninety chapters, but it's impossible for that to be certain this early on. You never know, really.
> 
> Also, the chapter title comes from "Brother" by Gerard Way (aka the Sherlock and Mycroft song, oops).

Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as he walked through the door.

It wasn't even one of those gut instinct feelings, like when you're being followed or watched; he just _knew_. He always knew, no matter what other people thought about his annoying little habit of just knowing things the way he did. Maybe they were jealous. But probably not. Not very many people appreciated what he could do.

The morning had been normal. Well, whatever "normal" meant for the Holmes family. They were a family who believed in communication through fridge and door notes, or passing along the word through nannies, which was now becoming less favored than the other option, as Mycroft now vehemently insisted that he didn't need a nanny. Ever since he became an official teenager, he thinks he's an adult who can take care of himself and Sherlock without any help. Not that he didn't do that when he was twelve and under, though. He probably came out of the womb and started bossing the nurses around, claiming that their lack of a work ethic was going to ruin his upcoming life just because they weren't holding him exactly right.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes tried to be involved parents, but whenever one of them got the bright idea to do something together as a family, something work-related (so they claimed) would come up. Sherlock didn't mind. It would have ended badly, anyway. Two people were bound to start fighting.

Seeing who it would be was the fun part. Sherlock had calculated, and there were six ways it could go. But it usually wasn't him. Most of the time, it was their parents, because for Mycroft to argue with his parents—or any adult, for that matter—he had to be very passionate about whatever it was, and he didn't feel that way about many things. When it happened, Mycroft would keep his head ducked and concentrated on his shoes, and Sherlock picked a side and joined, usually resulting in him being ignored.

That was the difference between Sherlock and Mycroft: Mycroft knew how to keep his mouth shut.

Sherlock's parents weren't home, which usually wouldn't be very surprising, as they were almost never home when Sherlock was, but that triggered the feeling that loomed over him and raised several instant red flags.

First, the solemn smiles he received from various workers around the house. They usually avoided Sherlock at all costs and didn't even look up at the six-year-old when he walked by, out of fear of his curiosity and intelligence, because he said anything that came to his mind, socially acceptable or not. Needless to say, they didn't like him, and they wouldn't be smiling if something weren't wrong. He didn't smile back.

Second, the house wasn't spotless. Mrs. Holmes threw a fit if a single thing sat out of its place and took it out on everyone else, and the whole house worked together to avoid it. But it looked as though the maids hadn't touched the house since Sherlock left for school that morning, like there had been some sort of panic that interrupted everyone's day.

Third, Mycroft was sitting on the couch, still dressed in his school uniform, waiting nervously for Sherlock. He even offered a tiny smile when Sherlock walked in, a weak, toothy grin that was obviously forced. It was strange that he had arrived home already, as if he had been pulled out early just to talk to Sherlock about whatever it was.

Usually when Mycroft got home, he changed into his own clothes and sat on the couch like a normal human being, not like the perfectly-raised, good-boy machine act he was forced to do when someone else was at the manor. He was expected to be dressed in a suit that was completely free of wrinkles, dust, or anything that could make his parents look bad. He had to sit up back-breakingly straight until he was at the point where he could barely breathe, and had to paint on a smile that looked like he was holding it there with invisible clothespins. This always made Sherlock dread becoming a teenager.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

"Well, sit down, Lockie, I'll tell you everything."

He only ever called Sherlock that before he knew that he was going to have to tell him something that was sure to break his heart. The elder Holmeses always relied on Mycroft to tell Sherlock the bad stuff. But still he pushed out another smile and folded his hands in his lap.

Although Sherlock would never hurt him with the fact, Mycroft looked more like his father every day. He had a more adult-like bone structure coming in, and he was getting taller and slimmer, not gangly and bony like Sherlock, but a nice, slender shape.

Also, now whenever Sherlock walked close enough to him, he smelled cologne. Father's cologne. His parents refused to let him have his own yet, as he was still "too young", according to their mother, who desperately tried to hold onto her sons' childhood. Sherlock pulled some strings and got Mycroft his own bottle, which smelled very different from Father's. And if you caught him early enough in the morning, you could see some rust-colored shadows below his chin that crept slightly over his upper jaw, which actually suited him nicely, until Mummy told him to shave it off.

Hesitantly, Sherlock sat, staying on the edge and letting the tips of his toes touch the floor, while the rest of his foot formed an uncomfortable arch.

"Okay. Tell me."

"This is what I was told me to tell you," he introduced. This is what Mycroft usually did: let Sherlock know that these were not his words, in case he got blamed for them. Now that Sherlock saw him talk about the subject at hand, Sherlock could see definite sadness and worry in his face, and his eyes looked like he had been crying. Concerning. Mycroft didn't cry; Sherlock had never even seen him close to crying before. "Mummy was diagnosed with breast cancer today. That's all anyone will tell me. I begged Father to tell me more, but he wouldn't tell me anything else. I don't know how bad it is, or what stage it's at, or . . ." Mycroft was now biting his lip lightly as his little brother had tears stinging his eyes.

"Have you spoken to her?" Sherlock asked with a wavering voice, rising to his feet.

"No, not since this morning." He ran a hand through his soft auburn hair and sighed. "But she's probably had her suspicions for a while now. She has been acting rather strange lately. I can't believe I didn't notice."

And by strange, he meant motherly. For a few months now, she had been saying good night every night and kissing both of their cheeks when they left for school.

Sherlock took a half-step towards Mycroft and fidgeted with his hands, tugging on his fingers on one hand with the other. "If Father won't tell _you_ anything, it can't be good. Mycroft, what if—"

"Sherlock, no. None of that," he said, cutting him off in an uncharacteristically soft, gentle voice. "The most we can do is be positive."

Those were words Sherlock had never expected to hear from him. Neither of them knew anything about positivity, it seemed, as Sherlock just saw things for what they were, and Mycroft always found things to worry about, no matter what it was. But now they didn't have much of a choice. Mycroft was right when he said that it was the most they could do.

"But she's our mother," Sherlock squeaked. "How could we not worry?"

He differed from the other children who thought they were older than they really were in the aspect that recognized the fact that he was just a child and did not have much responsibility and needed someone to take care of him. Father couldn't and wouldn't do it alone, and although Mycroft was protective enough, he was just a kid, too.

"I know. I'm not saying for you not to worry—please, don't do that too much, though, because it's not good for you—but we can't dwell on the thought of . . . you know."

Sherlock switched from fidgeting his hands to having his arms crossed with his fingers tightly constricted around his upper arms, rapidly tapping. "I can't help it. Neither can you, I can tell. Why else would you have been crying?" He held a slight scowl at his brother for not caring.

"I'm not arguing with you today, Sherlock. Of all days." He finally gave in and let himself sit back against the couch for support and cradled his face with his hand, breathing steadily and staying silent.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled. He wasn't very familiar with this choice of words, and he rarely ever said it. This was a necessary exception.

Mycroft sighed again, an exhausted sigh instead of an annoyed one, and lowered his hand, now resting his chin on his knuckles and gazing off, not in the direction of Sherlock or anything else worth looking at.

"No, it's alright. You're only young, after all. It's natural for you to think about these things, I guess, especially at your level of understanding and intelligence." Now his voice was eerily calm and basically void of all emotion.

Then he did something even more out of his element: he held his arms out.

He still stared indirectly at Sherlock from the corner of his eyes, and his face was still toneless. But there he was, offering Sherlock something that he had never done before, and honestly, it was a big deal to Sherlock, all things considered. Sure, he had been held as a baby, but once he grew up (basically just after he learned how to walk and talk), people stopped and held back, throwing their hands up in surrender and walking out. He figured that he didn't like or need affection, anyway. He was wrong, apparently.

Betrayed by his heart, Sherlock all but ran into Mycroft's arms, and he collapsed onto him, holding his shoulders tightly and crying. Before, he secretly hated the cologne he wore, even though he bought it, because it meant that he was growing up, and Sherlock wasn't. But now he found it comforting for some reason, and it relieved him that he got him his own in the first place.

He hadn't noticed the tears until he felt one brush against his skin, and he profusely tried to stop the tears for a few minutes, but eventually gave up on it. _It's okay to cry right now_ , that's what Mycroft kept whispering. These words only made the tears worse, and Sherlock was unsure why. Just the sound of Mycroft's voice was enough to get him started again.

Really, it was multiple reasons why he couldn't seem to stop crying, when he, like Mycroft, hadn't cried since he was an infant. One: he was being shown affection. Two: it was _Mycroft_ who was showing him affection. Three, the obvious one: Mummy.

Mycroft soothingly twirled some of Sherlock's black curls around his fingers as he tried to comfort him by saying, "I'm sure everything will be alright."

Sherlock turned his head that had been buried in his brother's neck and freed his mouth to speak clearly, thankful they couldn't see each other's face. "And what if it's not?"

It worried him and made him feel like he was just an inconvenience to everyone. Sherlock didn't want Mycroft to be impelled to surrender whatever remained of his childhood just to raise his brother. Mycroft could learn to resent him if that happened.

"The only way it won't be okay is if you let it be that way. I'll be home for another five years before I go to university, and by that time, you'll almost be my age, and I can take care of myself, and so will you."

In all honesty, Sherlock believed that Mycroft had actually grown up far faster than he perhaps should have, and really, so had he. But Mycroft was practically grown already. Sherlock wasn't like him. He wasn't as smart or handsome or as well-mannered as he was, and everyone knew it. Even Mycroft apologized to Sherlock after family holidays for all of the people comparing the two.

Maybe Mycroft could teach him to be like him. Sherlock knew what other people thought and what they did, but he usually had to stare for a while before he got it. For Mycroft, on the other hand, it only took a single look, and he was more experienced and saw past the obvious. It seemed like he was better at everything, and it infuriated him occasionally.

Sherlock finally parted from Mycroft and began to walk away, careful to make sure no one saw his red, swollen eyes and damp cheeks. But as he was leaving, he stopped and leaned against the door frame for support, turning his face only slightly, obscuring his pale face with his dark, too-long hair.

"Mycroft?" He wasn't even sure if he was looking his way, but he spoke anyway. "Don't blame yourself for not seeing this coming. I didn't notice, either."

And with that, he quickly ran out of the room, pushing the front door open and letting it slam itself shut behind him, running to where he could be alone.


	2. We Could Steal Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Heroes" by David Bowie because I love him, and there's always a place for Bowie.

As Sherlock ran through the overflowing fields of green on the massive estate, he watched as the world soared past him in flying colors of green and blue and brown. The backyard—and the front—stretched across an endless amount of land, it seemed, and Sherlock just wanted to be rid of it all for right now. The largeness, the richness, the status. It didn't mean anything as of that moment.

In a way, he appreciated what the flying colors achieved in their own, unintended little way. The way they went by so fast represented Sherlock's life and how quickly it could change, just as the colors change so rapidly. But he refused to stop and ponder this thought and continued to run. He needed to be alone.

Mycroft wouldn't mind, not that he had a choice. In fact, he probably wanted to be alone just as much as Sherlock did, now that he knew what Mycroft did when he was alone with such awful news. He could cry, something less "okay" than when Sherlock did it. When Sherlock did it, which wasn't often, his age got passed off as the best excuse anyone had, as something had to be very wrong if he cried. But when it was Mycroft, it was frowned upon, and he would be told how he needed to be strong for his younger brother, and that it was ridiculous for him to be crying.

The distance between Sherlock and the cutoff from the house drew to a close, and his heart leapt as he jumped into the trees and disappeared into them. Disappearing felt good, Sherlock supposed, and there really was never an instance where it didn't feel good.

Once the image of the manor appeared at its smallest before it completely disappeared, Sherlock delved into the deep forest and slowed his running to a walk. Mycroft always worried whenever Sherlock went too deep into the forest, but surely he could make an exception today. Sherlock only ever went there when he could, which wasn't very often.

If you went deep enough into the forest, you would find the quietest, most calming place in all of London, perhaps, and quiet and calm was something that wasn't abundant in Sherlock's life. It meant a lot to him to be able to come and have the silence immediately penetrate as something so loud as soon as he made the first step in. However, it wasn't the silence that screamed when he made that step; it was his own thoughts.

Suddenly they all attacked ay once, and what had been a puzzle of things in all mixed up and lost pieces now completed the picture and spelled out in bright red letters: His mother had cancer. That was all there was to it. She had cancer, and she may die, and Sherlock may be alone without anyone. His mother hadn't been the traditional, caring mother she could have been, but she was nothing like her husband, who liked to believe he didn't have any children.

Sherlock sat down in a patch of grass that was left alone from the sunlight that tried to intrude through the trees and blindingly shine down in certain spots, only illuminating the harsh conditions of where Sherlock was. Jagged, spinous rocks everywhere, sharp enough and large enough to kill a six-year-old if one were to fall on it. A small amount of water rushed by, although it wasn't big enough to be considered a real river, but again, enough to kill a six-year-old. Also, any sort of ravaging, dangerous animal could be lurking and ready to attack at any moment.

Sherlock would normally take this time to look around, maybe plan a little experiment on some of the vegetation, but instead, he pulled his knees in and wrapped his arms around them, proceeding to bury his head in them, his bones, not covered by a lot of skin, digging into his forehead, but eventually accustomed. His eyes stayed clenched shut, and all he could see was black, instead of the pretty colors of nature in front of him. He didn't need pretty right now.

He didn't even realize, but he began rocking himself back and forth, which confused him a bit. No one had ever done that for him. Mycroft had a bit of a sway when he hugged Sherlock a few minutes ago, but that didn't count. He supposed that it was his realization that he longed for motherly things like that now that his own mother may not be able to do it. The universe was cruel like that.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock felt something poke his shoulder. His first instinct was to lash out and scream for someone, but he was frozen in his spot, without the energy to even look up right away. It was when another poke pressed against him that he decided to lift his head slightly, only to be met with a disconcerted looking boy, who had crouched down next to Sherlock, and he must have been for a while, judging by how his knees were about to give out.

"Hi," he said, completely casually, a voice that did not match his current expression.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure whether or not he should reply to him. Obviously the boy saw something in Sherlock that made him worry, which could mean anything.

"Hello," he ended up saying, his voice wavering slightly, which he silently cursed himself for. Now the boy was going to think he had some sort of advantage over him. He was about Sherlock's age, if not older.

"What are you doing?" he asked with a hint of concern in his voice.

"What are _you_ doing? You shouldn't be here. Go away," Sherlock snapped, hoping to cause the look he usually got for that from the boy, but he was unaffected by it completely. Infuriating.

The boy stopped crouching and sat flat beside Sherlock on the grass, stretching his legs out in front of him, revealing a short stature, shorter than Sherlock. Now he could see that this boy really was tiny, but he managed to look older than Sherlock at the same time. "Why should I not be here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Because you shouldn't be," he said as if it were the simplest thing. It was an excuse Mycroft made, and it worked for him.

"That's not a very good reason. Should you be here?"

"Yes, I should."

"Why you and not me?"

Sherlock wasn't sure if the boy was either clever or just stupid. "Because I was here first."

The boy smiled, to which Sherlock frowned at, disapproving on him seeing himself as superior for some reason. "Not true. I was over there when you came in. You didn't see me," he said, pointing somewhere Sherlock couldn't be bothered to look, as it would involve turning around, and if he had the choice between being proven wrong and not being proven wrong, he would take the opportunity.

"Well, I _always_ come here. How did you even find it when the trail leads to _my_ house?"

Suddenly the boy looked incredulous. "You mean that huge house is yours?" he asked, amazed.

Sherlock couldn't resist rolling his eyes again. "Yes. That's where I live."

"So you must have a lot of money. The trail past here leads to my house. It's not very big, but at least I have one. That's what my mum tells me."

"Your mother is . . . correct." He didn't want to say 'smart' and give him that pleasure. Not yet. Maybe once he proved he wasn't faking being nice.

The boy started picking at some of the grass below him and fidgeting with it. "I know. I'm thankful that I have a house. A lot of people don't. Some of the people in my neighborhood, even. But when I grow up, I'm going to have a house like yours."

Shaking his head, Sherlock said, "You don't want a house like mine. You'd be the type to get lonely easily." He didn't say that he was that type, because he usually wasn't. Only on certain occasions. But this boy probably always needed someone to talk to. Obviously he did, or he wouldn't still be here.

"Do you get lonely?" the boy asked, pushing back some of his blonde hair that desperately needed a haircut. Sherlock figured either he couldn't afford it or his parents just didn't care. He couldn't tell which. It was one of the few times Sherlock wished Mycroft was with him; he would know.

"No. I like being alone. You would get because you're dependent." Sherlock could actually tell that the boy was not dependent, and he had raised himself a bit more than he should have, and he just took a liking to people because they took a liking to him. Sherlock almost let a smile slip when he realized that he had done that deduction by himself. He would have told Mycroft if the circumstances were different. He would have been proud.

The boy drew in his eyebrows and had that confused frown on his face again. "Just because someone likes being around people doesn't mean they're dependent."

"If it helps you sleep at night."

"You know, I didn't get your name. What is it?" John changed the subject again, still undeterred by Sherlock's continuous attempts to push him away.

"You tell me yours first," Sherlock mumbled.

"John. John Hamish Watson," he said without any hesitation.

He sounded proud to be John Hamish Watson, even though he probably lived in a council house in a slummy neighborhood, overrun by drug dealers and users, and he must have lived with at least one alcoholic. But he still knew how to smile and be positive, something Sherlock found baffling. Here he was, privileged and rich, and he was whining and being horrible to John. It wasn't often he felt this way about someone, to make him feel guilty about his decisions.

Sherlock actually tried to make an effort after that. "My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes," he said quietly, avoiding John's eyes. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

John merely smiled, making him look older and more mature than he probably was. "Because you're just in a bad mood right now. I can tell. But why? I saw how you were sitting when you got here, with your head down the way it was."

It felt better to tell someone, even if it was a stranger. "My mummy has cancer."

Immediately, John's face fell, and he stopped smiling, inching closer to Sherlock as he said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He didn't know what else to say. Was there really anything else to say? He couldn't have said, _Well, I hope she doesn't die_ or, _Do you think she'll die?_ That would be wrong.

Sherlock shrugged lightly and began tracing his finger along the dirt, not drawing or writing anything in particular. "There's nothing you can do, so why be sorry? My father wouldn't tell my older brother the exact details, and he tells him everything, so she must be dying. Dying is necessary for all of us, someday."

He looked very sad, and John wanted nothing more than to hug the boy in front of him. Although he was tall, he was very skinny, and the way he positioned himself made him look even smaller. John almost thought he was a lost toddler at first.

"My dad is dead. I think so, at least. I never knew him."

Sherlock turned his head and stared at John. "You don't know where your father is, so you just assume he's dead? He could be out there somewhere. We could find him. I'm very good at finding things. And people."

John's face had a look of obvious distaste. "If he is, I don't want to meet him. That means he left my mum while she was pregnant with me."

"That makes sense, I suppose. I don't much like my father, to be perfectly honest. Except I have to live with him."

Horrified, John quickly stuttered out, "You can't hate your dad when you know him and live with him. That's horrible!"

"He doesn't like me, either. He only likes the idea of me," Sherlock said, suppressing a sigh.

"That makes sense, I suppose," John echoed, not in a mocking way or anything.

"Think so?"

"Yeah."


	3. A Vision With Nowhere to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait . . . again. I'm usually faster than this, I promise. I am officially on summer vacation, therefore out of excuses. Thank you for your patience and for putting up with me.
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Ready to Go (Get Me Out Of My Mind)" by Panic! At The Disco.

"I have to go home," Sherlock abruptly said, after talking quietly with John about random things for a while, which he mostly just listened to John and added his input whenever it was absolutely necessary. It wasn't like him to not interrupt every sentence and correct mistakes, but right now he just needed to hear a voice like John's, innocent and happy, like bad news hadn't shattered his whole day.

He had been listening for so long that he forgot about going home. Maybe that was a good thing, because the empty feeling of hopelessness and sadness returned as soon as the words came out, and he was in real life again, and it wasn't just any ordinary day.

John took a minute to adjust to the sudden change in conversation. Sherlock was pleased with himself that John now felt what he had since they started talking, and now he saw what he did to Sherlock. "Oh. Yeah, it's getting kind of late. I guess I should go, too." He stumbled to his feet and wiped the grass and dirt on his shirt before holding his hand out to Sherlock. "It was nice meeting you, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at his hand before meekly shaking it. It was the first time, actually. Father always shook hands with people (if they were important enough), but everyone assumed either Sherlock was too young or would bite their hand off if given the chance.

"You, too," he mumbled.

"When will you be here again?"

Did someone really want him to meet with them after talking to him once? That had never happened before, and quite frankly, it baffled Sherlock. Maybe he was getting his hopes up and jumping to conclusions, though. Maybe John only wanted to know so he could avoid coming back at that time.

"I only come when I can," he explained, not trying to show any enthusiasm, but also not trying to seem disinterested.

"Is it only when you're sad?"

"Basically."

John held a look of sympathy in his eyes, which Sherlock loathed to see when it was being directed towards him. "Oh." He obviously wanted to say more, but there wasn't anything else. The thing with Sherlock is that only what has to be said needs to be told to him. He didn't need sympathy or extra words of encouragement.

"I mean, that makes sense. When you're sad, of course you'd want to be alone. Right?" It made him paranoid, honestly, to think that John might leave because they were different from each other, even in aspects such as these.

"For some people, I guess," John answered. "Not me, though. I like to have someone with me when I'm sad."

Sherlock imagined the things that would cause John to be sad. He seemed like such a happy boy at first glance, but then you stare into his eyes and see a sort of lurking sadness that maybe even he didn't know about until it was awakened. Definite, worn, draining sadness. And he couldn't have been any older than ten. Eight, at most. He encountered problems at home, that much was clear, but what the problems were remained a mystery.

"I know. I can tell," Sherlock said and paused for a minute, forgetting once again that he really needed to be home. "I'll be going now. Actually going this time."

"Right. Um, bye." As John coughed awkwardly, Sherlock realized that he probably had spoken with annoyance behind his tone. So, he offered the tiniest of smiles and took off, leaving John behind.

xxx

By the time he got back, Mycroft was still the only Holmes other than Sherlock who was home, which was a relief to both of them. If their parents came home during a tragedy and Mycroft had to tell them he'd lost Sherlock, things wouldn't go well for either of them. His thoughts had been clouded at the time he let Sherlock wander off, and only after he was long gone had he realized what he had allowed.

He sighed when Sherlock walked in, now dirty and smelling of trees and grass, half-relief, half-displeased. "Sherlock, you're filthy," he whined, sounding like his usual, overprotective self. Sherlock suspected he was doing this on purpose, to allow them to feel like themselves for at least a few minutes. He quite appreciated the effort.

Swiftly, Mycroft swept across the room and leaned over to where Sherlock stood and tried rubbing the dirt off of his face by rubbing his thumb over his cheek rather roughly, then he tried fixing his tangled hair by finger-combing it, then transitioning to wiping his clothes and trying to smooth down the creases. When Sherlock finally rolled his eyes and jerked away from him, he dropped his hands to his sides and said, "I guess you look okay. For a boy who's just learned that his mother has cancer, that is. They'll be home soon, and don't get too close to Father when they get here; he'll know that you've been out, and I was told to keep you right here, and then we'll both be in trouble. And I doubt he'll be a very merciful man today." Mycroft hovered his hands over Sherlock's shoulders and looked him up and down at an arm's length one last time. "And most importantly, Sherlock, don't be a brat. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded, trying not to roll his eyes again, and detoured around him to the couch, where he sat and waited. Waiting. It was so boring. But added to being boring came the anxious feeling. The feeling of uncertainty, which was a foreign subject to the Holmes boys, loomed over them and hung like the sun or the moon, always watching and following, being the point of focus no matter how big the environment.

"Where are they?" Sherlock demanded after only four minutes of waiting.

Mycroft stared ahead with his legs crossed, his foot bouncing impatiently, although his face would never show it. "They'll be here soon, as I said not five minutes ago. Father's not one for giving me many details today, if you haven't already noticed." His voice sounded unnecessarily sour and tired, like he wasn't even trying to present himself in that way.

"Well, they need to hurry," Sherlock mumbled absently, not even noticing the nature of what he just said.

"They will take as long as they take. This is hard for her, Sherlock." And there was the soft Mycroft voice again. He couldn't seem to make up mind as to how he should act in this situation, so he went back and forth, seeing which Sherlock reacted better with.

"Are you saying it's not hard for him?" Sherlock asked. He didn't mean it in a snarky or defensive way, either; it was a genuine question. Because it was hard to tell when it came to Father and what he really cared about.

"I'm sure it's hard for him, as well. But Mummy is the one who's going through it, so that's the example I used." Usually this would be where a normal sibling would tell their equally normal sibling to not look into things so deep and to not overthink, but according to Mycroft, it was a good thing. Overthinking was his forte, after all.

Then a thought occurred to Sherlock, a thought which he could only express around Mycroft, as anyone else would wonder what was wrong with him. "How do you think he'd react if it were one of us cancer?"

"Stop," Mycroft simply said, in a calm voice, although his eyes quickly flicked over to him with a sharp glance and then returned to looking ahead.

"He would be more upset if it were you. Everyone would be."

"Enough." Now his voice wavered the slightest bit with a growing discomfort.

"Including me."

Mycroft scoffed in disbelief. "Will you be quiet for five minutes?"

"Why does it make you uncomfortable for me to say things like that?"

"Because it's wrong, Sherlock," he answered, teetering between sounding snappy and sounding like he was just answering a curious child's question. "You shouldn't be thinking about things like that, anyway."

"Don't you?"

On queue, his fingers found their way to his temple. "No, I try not to think about your death," he said drily.

Sherlock sat forward to where he could see his face, which had changed dramatically over the course of today, with his eyes now full of anxiety that wouldn't go away. "You _try_ not to? Does that mean you're unsuccessful sometimes?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Mycroft whispered to himself, settling with looking down at the carpeted, clean floor instead of putting his head in his hands, which he would prefer, but they would be home any second now, and he didn't want his mother to see him like that. He didn't want anyone to, for that matter.

Sherlock went quiet after that, leaning back again and looking forward at the door, and he waited. He stole glances at Mycroft from the corner of his eye every so often and saw him with his arm held perpendicular to the armrest and his cheek pressed against his knuckles, and he had those eyes again, and that was ultimately what made Sherlock turn away and stop looking over.

It took about five more minutes of waiting until Sherlock got antsy again. But it was in a restless, cannot relax kind of way and not the usual curious way he would get. He couldn't get comfortable, resulting in him fidgeting about in various positions on the couch, one in which he rested his legs over Mycroft's lap, which he pushed away, just as Sherlock expected he would do. So then he tried reposing his head onto his shoulder, just to see if he would shrug him off. He didn't. He merely gave him a look as if to say, _Are you serious?_ , to which Sherlock answered by moving closer, wrapping his fingers lightly around his arm, and looking at him with the ghost of a smirk, to say, _Yes, I'm very serious. Coddle as much as you see fit._

"You're ridiculous," Mycroft whispered, even though they were the only two in the room. Sherlock responded by nuzzling his nose against his shoulder, carefully hiding the smirk that had now surfaced, because Sherlock felt that Mycroft was desperately trying not to make even the slightest movement that would disturb him. At least he was quiet.

This, admittedly, made the waiting a bit more bearable. He was as comfortable as he could be under the circumstances, and he felt mildly relaxed, even if it felt rather strange, but Sherlock knew that they would just forget it ever happened and never mention it again. He intended for it to count as teasing Mycroft, but the longer he sat there and waited, the more genuine he got about it.

Mr. Holmes stopped in the doorway, and his blank expression morphed into gauge surprise and confusion when he saw Sherlock all but clinging to Mycroft's arm, with his head positioned on his shoulder. It took Mycroft a few seconds to notice his father was even there, and he jumped, placing his full attention on him. Sherlock, who had almost fallen asleep (although he would never admit it), almost yelled at Mycroft for hurting his cheek when he lurched forward, but then he noticed what it had been for and joined his brother in attentiveness.

Their father stepped into the room, looking uneasy and apprehensive, a look not often worn by him. But he arrived alone. Mycroft kept trying to nonchalantly watch the doorway for anyone else who might walk in behind him, but there was no one. Sherlock only watched the door for a few seconds before crossing his skinny arms over his chest and glaring at his father, which he found was not received well by Mycroft, who gave him a warning glare in return, which was ignored.

"Where's Mummy?" he demanded, making it sound more like an interrogation than a simple question. His voice was far too sharp for his age, people often concluded. It didn't seem like a bad thing to Sherlock.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a while and sighed. "Sherlock," he whispered, another warning. This was stage two of his warnings. Stage one was The Mycroft Look, stage two involved words, and stage three depended. Sherlock appeared to be undeterred by it and only threw back a short look to only acknowledge that he heard him speak.

"To tell her sister," was all their father said. It was self-explanatory, after all.

Silence fell upon the room, which was unusual when three Holmes were in the room, especially together. Maybe they didn't have normal family conversations, but someone was always talking. But there was nothing to say, for once. Sherlock had plenty of concerns and questions swirling around in his head, but none of which that could be voiced just yet. The only thing that could conquer the questions was a single thought, which could not be contained.

"You don't seem very concerned," Sherlock pointed out, earning the attention of his father more quickly than he ever had and his foot getting purposely stepped on by Mycroft. Sherlock didn't look at his brother's face, but he assumed it had instantly gone paler than it already was, as his eyes widened in horror.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't seem concerned," he repeated as if it didn't need any further explanation.

Sherlock easily managed to keep a straight face while he got stared down by his father, his eyes full of anger. He had never looked so angry before, both boys noted, and Mycroft mentally prepared himself for what was about to happen.

"Is that what you think? That I don't care?" His tone sounded dangerously quiet and even. Calm, even.

Wrong question, Mycroft thought. Wrong, wrong, wrong question. Of course it's what Sherlock thought. He had expressed so many times in secrecy that he didn't think his father cared. Sherlock always did this while Mycroft did his school work, actually, because he wouldn't say anything back That was what Sherlock wanted, and he assumed that Mycroft didn't remember any of it because he wasn't listening, but in reality, Mycroft remembered everything.

"Do you care?" Now, that wasn't a sincere question; it was just a sardonic remark. He even added a quick grin. That time, Mycroft leaned over and pinched Sherlock's arm.

Mr. Holmes held the bridge of his nose and peered at Sherlock through the space created between his fingers. "Both of you need to go do something else." It wasn't a suggestion, but an order disguised as one.

Mycroft mumbled a quiet "Yes, sir," before closing his hand harshly around Sherlock's wrist like he was closing a fan and dragged him out of the room.

He also looked unhappy with Sherlock, but it was different. Their father had had pure hatred in his eyes, and maybe it was just because of the day (probably not), but Mycroft at least didn't look like he hated him. Plus, even with the pinching and wrist-grabbing and stepping on his feet, he didn't try to physically hurt him. Neither of them were so sure about their father. Usually Mummy mediated whenever Sherlock and his father got into it, but what now?

"You know that I was right," Sherlock said quietly to Mycroft once they were out of the room.


	4. Angels With Their Wings Glued On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Cherub Rock" by The Smashing Pumpkins.

Sherlock fussed like an infant (if infants had the vocabulary of a high school student) as Mycroft pulled him from the room and to the hallway upstairs, when he cornered him and kneeled in front of him, not looking happy at all.

"Do you want to be separated?" he asked, enunciating every syllable, as if putting emphasis on one word wasn't enough.

Any other day, Sherlock would have given a snarky remark back about how he would like that, if it would stop Mycroft's incessant smothering. But this was a serious question, and Sherlock supposed he should give a serious answer, since Mycroft did look distressed, too distressed for a thirteen-year-old boy. He'd grown up far too quickly, and now he was having to think about raising a child. The least Sherlock could do was to not be unkind to him right now.

A small sounding "No," was all Sherlock could produce, disappointing his mind that had a very strong inner voice with well-structured opinions and understand of things, particularly in the field of what Sherlock wanted and didn't want.

"All right, then," Mycroft said, looking into Sherlock's plethora of an eye color with his own grey eyes, and he could only imagine all that went on behind them. "Do you think Father won't send you off somewhere if he has to raise you alone when you're acting like that?"

A solid point, and now, sadly, something that had to be taken into consideration. The possibility of them being together still existed, but it was threatened, and that had never happened before, so neither of them knew what to expect. One could only prepare for the worst when it came to their father.

"He could do that and not separate us," Sherlock pointed out, slowly finding his voice again now that Mycroft was actually listening to what he had to say instead of that patronizing "Oh, I'm sure of it, honey" attitude he usually received from adults when he attempted to make valid observations and comments on things their brains couldn't possibly understand.

"Have you ever met him? Sherlock, I'm aware that because of the biological ties between you and him, you'd like to not think he'd do such a thing to so deliberately make you unhappy, but you're forgetting who's been here seven years longer than you. I have seen him do it. Don't put it past him. Don't put anything past anyone."

Which loosely translated to: _He has purposely gone out of his way to make me unhappy, and he'll do it to you._

It did make sense for Mycroft to be worried, though, and not because he worried about everything. He'd made a promise to himself to keep his younger brother safe six years ago, and he wasn't too keen on breaking that promise now, when it was needed the most.

"Anyone?" Sherlock echoed the word flatly as if it was the dumbest idea he'd ever heard.

He shook his head, ignoring the tone he used and treated like he was genuinely asking. "Not really. You pick who you trust, brother mine, but you don't pick what they do. We have such little control over things that aren't ourselves, and in the end, it's all we have."

"I can do without the motivational speaking, thank you," Sherlock said, then changed the course of the conversation back by adding, "And how do you know who to trust?"

Mycroft waved his hand and smiled, pleased that he gets to show off how his mind works. "It's quite easy. See if they're liars, see if they have truly good intentions, see if they have a bad past."

Sherlock bit his tongue for a few seconds as he debated whether he should ask or not, but he eventually took his mind off of the meaning behind the question and asked in a quick rush that made it sound like one long word, "But how do you know all of that?"

"Do you not know how?" Mycroft asked, his grin widening even further, and Sherlock, becoming more and more defensive, glowered at him.

"Yes, of course I know basic deduction skills," he tried to mend in a fervent voice.

"You do, but you don't know how to apply it," Mycroft said, now in his older-sounding voice that Sherlock hated with a passion. "But you are young, after all. Although I could do it at your age, I guess it will take you a few years."

This time with a sigh, Sherlock didn't bother with determining how stupid he would sound and simply asked, "Will you teach me?"

Mycroft looked positively giddy. "I'm sorry, is Sherlock Holmes asking for _help_ with something? I may just have to get you to repeat that so I can have a personal recording of it."

"Will you do it or not?" Sherlock snapped at him, but it didn't affect his mood at all.

"Of course I will." Now his voice sounded soft again, and his grin turned into a simple smile, and Sherlock felt his own scowl falter, but he was quick to retrieve it back to the way it was. "We start tomorrow."

xxx

It was much too early in the morning when Mycroft dragged Sherlock out into town the next day. Mycroft spent long enough trying to wake him up, only to be swatted at and then had to listen to him complain the whole time. But regardless, he kept a smile on. More like a smug grin, in Sherlock's opinion, because he got to show what he could do in front of someone who would want to learn from it and not someone who would end up punching him for it.

"You shaved this morning," Sherlock said as they walked along the pavement amongst the other early risers who all looked equally as miserable as Sherlock. For once, Mycroft was the only one smiling. Usually it was the opposite.

Something unnameable flashed over his eyes, and he looked at Sherlock for only a second before looking in front again. "Yes, well, facial hair doesn't suit me, wouldn't you agree? It ages me, and not in a good way."

 _That's not what you thought last week when you were arguing about it with Mummy,_ Sherlock almost said, but he knew the real reason why he now had a sudden desire to shave, and it would be insensitive to press further. "There's shaving cream behind your ear."

Immediately, he directed his long finger and swiped it behind his ear and got it off. "Thank you, Sherlock. Your first official deduction. Let's try to not have your second one on me, as well."

"Why? Because I'll embarrass you?"

Mycroft looked flustered. "No, because you already know me. It doesn't count as much."

Sherlock scoffed. "That doesn't mean I can't use you as an example."

"It does if you want me to teach you."

"What do you have to hide? And I could probably do it myself, anyway."

"Then why am I up so early?"

"Because you want to prove that you're 'the smart one.'" Sherlock had dramatic air-quotes around the title.

It was something from their younger days, when Sherlock tested him in various ways, only because he wanted to show that he could hold an intelligent conversation just like him, and that he didn't need to be treated like a baby. But Mycroft took it as a threat to his knowledge and would go on a tirade about how he was smarter. Sherlock really hated him when he did that.

"Not necessarily," he said with a certain tightness in his voice that signified that he was stifling sounding smug once again. Mycroft then tried to stiffly slip his arm around Sherlock's thin shoulders, but he quickly got out of reach and shot his older brother a glare, to which Mycroft could only reply with a sigh. "So we're past the affectionate phase, then? That was short-lived. Usually your phases are far longer. Remember the pirate phase? I thought you'd never grow out of that one."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed in reply and crossed his arms as he walked, pulling his jacket tighter. It hadn't been particularly cold that morning, but lately the weather had been all over the place, and he just wanted to be sure.

The rest of the walk was ultimately silent until they reached the gate of a familiar park Sherlock used to go to when he was younger, but no one really offered to take him anymore, as they were all busy, now including Mycroft, who was now getting more and more schoolwork assigned to him as he got older, which he did without any complaints, oddly. Mycroft ushered him inside and followed behind him, looking out of place, and for the first time, Sherlock saw how Mycroft really didn't fit in with the other teenagers at all, and it didn't seem to bother him. Sherlock had little experience with other teenagers, and he knew that none of them would be like Mycroft, but it was more drastic than he thought. He'd have to take notes on the whole not caring thing.

Plenty of parents brought their kids especially early so not as many people would be there, Sherlock knew the drill. But other than that, it was pretty deserted, which would normally be considered a good thing, but not if they were here specifically for the people who would be there.

Mycroft sped up a bit so he could get in front of Sherlock and lead him to a bench set pleasantly under a tree that offered plenty of shade. At least he was like the other teenagers in the aspect that he was here with a much younger sibling and looked positively bored out of his mind. He sat down and although he gave no inclination to do so, Sherlock knew to sit beside him in order to get him to continue talking.

Sherlock tried to not swing his legs that hung over the bench and didn't quite reach the ground. He would most likely be tall when he got older, but until then he had to deal with Mycroft teasing him about his height. "All right. Now what?"

"You tell me," Mycroft said. "What do you see?"

He hesitated to answer. No matter what he said, it would be proved wrong by Mycroft, and he would be made to look like an idiot. But he gave him no room to back out of answering, so he must have felt determined to get an answer out of him. "I see people, Mycroft. Obviously. Can we not skip the part where you try to appear smarter than me for once? Just do what you do and teach me how you do it. It's not a difficult task."

Mycroft looked slightly confused. "I was only trying to see what you already know. Let's start with that woman over there, then, the one with the baby. What can you make of her?"

She was a young, pretty woman with hair the color of teak wood, which was pulled back into a bun. She was hunched over a stroller, babbling at her baby in a voice altered specifically for babies.

"She's a single mother," Sherlock began.

"But?"

But what? This was where Sherlock usually stopped. He took a stab in the dark. "The father is still present in the baby's life."

Mycroft smiled. "Yes, Sherlock. Good job." His compliments always sounded awkward and strained, but Sherlock took it anyway. "She's in the middle of a nasty custody battle with the father right now. You can tell by how tired she looks, so it can be assumed that she was up all night. Her wrist is tired because she's been holding up a phone all night, and the call was upsetting, and there was quite a bit of yelling. You can tell that part from her voice. There's no ring, so she's not married, of course, and you can also tell that she's being a bit more protective over the baby and wants to be around her more, so she has a fear of losing her, and if she does, she wants to make sure she spends all the time she can." Mycroft paused and let Sherlock take all of that in. "I hope she wins the case, too. The father's abusive."

"And you can tell that by the way she flinches when someone gets too close or looks like they might hurt her," Sherlock added, earning another smile and nod from Mycroft. He would rather die a hundred deaths than admit it, but the praise made him feel warm on the inside, and Mycroft's approving smile was contagious and caused Sherlock to smile softly to himself, and he even felt his cheeks heat up, but he wouldn't admit or show that, either.

Mycroft pointed to the next person, a man jogging by. "What about him?"

It was hard to see his face because of his continuous motion, but Sherlock tried his best. This man was in his late twenties or early thirties, and he had a horrible beard and greasy hair. "He only just recently started to take an interest in fitness. That much is obvious because of the way he's already out of breath and his physique in general."

This time Mycroft only nodded. Must have been too obvious for his liking. "Why the sudden interest now, though? He could have very well started at any other time."

Sherlock had to take a few more seconds to see why until it surprisingly became clear. "There's a girl who he works with. She must have just started working there, too. Anyway, he likes her, and he wants to look his best for her because she must be out of his league."

That got him a smile. "Yes. Exactly. Also, he usually wears glasses, he has asthma, and he was homeless as a child. Just some extra pieces of information."

"You're showing off again," Sherlock mumbled into his hands that were carefully steepled in front of his face, but Mycroft disregarded the comment.

"You pick the next one," he said.

Sherlock scanned the park for anyone who could be adequately interesting enough for both of their tastes. He studied faces in advance until he noticed someone who Mycroft might find intriguing. One was a girl around his age kept looking over and smiling, and the other was a boy around his age who also kept looking over, but he was glaring.

"That girl over there and the boy over there." They were on separate ends of the park, so they couldn't have been together. Mycroft looked at each carefully, not caring if they noticed, which they both did. When he looked at the girl, she blushed, but didn't look away and gave a toothy smile. The boy, however, only deepened his scowl and looked at him with pure hatred, and Mycroft kept his face neutral as he looked at the two.

Mycroft grinned at first and then started laughing when he saw the boy's face. "I'll give you one guess at which one knows me prior to this outing."

Easy enough. "The boy."

Mycroft nodded and leaned back against the bench. "He'd probably be hitting me if it weren't for you being here right now, Sherlock, so thank you." He still sounded amused as he said it, and Sherlock knew that it was because, even though he didn't look like it, Mycroft could defend himself in more ways than with his words. Now he just wondered what their history was, if there even was one. Sometimes (most of the time) Mycroft just rubbed people his own age the wrong way, and they resented him for it. "You're very good at this, by the way. I knew you'd be better than you thought you were."

"But you're still the smart one?" Sherlock asked with a small half-smile.

"Always."


	5. Calling Like A Distant Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Cuts You Up" by Peter Murphy (because I'm all about those guys with nice cheekbones).

Sherlock had a feeling that John would be in the same place they met the next day. It had been easy enough to detach himself from Mycroft once they arrived back on the estate, and if he noticed, he didn't say. Really, Sherlock just wanted to be able to tell someone about his day, and plus, he wanted to see if he was right about John being there.

Once Mycroft was out of sight, Sherlock made his way across the yard, and it seemed like a shorter distance today than it was yesterday, which was strange because yesterday he'd been running, and today he was walking. He really hoped John would be there. For more than one reason. One: he'd have someone else to talk to other than Mycroft, who already knew what Sherlock felt before he could put it into words. Two: Mummy was probably home by now, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face her just yet. And three: there was something about John that Sherlock just liked.

Sherlock wasted no time getting to the center where he presumed to be the most likely place to find John. He certainly wasn't going any further in. The other end of the forest led to the kind of neighborhood he was warned about, and if the snotty kids he had to associate with whenever he and Mycroft got forced into being around them seemed as bad as they were, he didn't want to meet the kids from where John was from, the ones who would push him down and hit him rather than whisper and laugh at him.

It was always a bad experience when he had to deal with them. Father would be working with people who also had children, and they would wrangle them all up and put them in a stuffy room together for a few hours because apparently it was a fantastic idea. Sherlock always notices how the room falls silent for a few seconds after he and Mycroft walk in, and how they always got a few looks and whispers. Usually Sherlock would stay close to Mycroft and they would stay huddled up in a corner together, avoiding the other kids, but then when he did get separated, he would be called names and laughed at. Mycroft was very talented at scaring off the younger kids for good, but even he couldn't do much about some of the older ones.

He wished he could delete the memory. There were several he wished he could be rid of forever, and several that he would give up without a second thought. One time Mycroft came home with a black eye and dried blood near his philtrum from his nose, and he forgot about it in a matter of hours. Sherlock didn't know how he did it. He'd never asked. It would make him feel even more stupid to ask Mycroft about the things that made him so clever, so he just dealt with the bad memories and let them pile up like overdue bills.

Sherlock was met with an excited shout of "Sherlock!" when he saw John. The boy came running to him and stopped in front of him. Today he was wearing a jumper that was far too big for him and that he'd probably be able to wear until he's twelve. He was wearing the same shoes and a pair of jeans that were now ruined by dirt. Sherlock offered an awkward smile and stood stiffly.

"John," he acknowledged.

John looked him up and down before returning his head to its slightly tilted upwards position so he could look at Sherlock. "Where've you been dressed like that?"

"Dressed like what?"

"I mean, yesterday, you were in a school uniform, but I didn't know all your clothes were fancy," John continued on, inspecting him further.

Sherlock looked down at himself as well. He was in a buttoned shirt with a nice sweater over it along with dress shoes and trousers. "Oh. Yes, I suppose this is how I always dress. But at least I don't wear ties like my brother."

John's eyes shimmered with interest and awe, and he smiled widely, showing a few missing baby teeth. "You have a brother? I've always wanted one."

Shrugging, Sherlock sat down, which was quickly mimicked by John. "Not if you met him. You're better off as an only child."

"Nope," John said, plucking a piece of grass from the ground. "I have an older sister. It's not the same as a brother."

"How would you know if you don't have one?"

"Because it just is."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "I hate my brother."

John let out a little gasp as his eyes widened, horrified. "He's your brother. You can't say that," he nearly shouted. Clearly he was brought up to love his family no matter what, which explained a lot. Sherlock was sure he'd resent his family if they neglected him that much. But John used his heart more than his head, something Sherlock had once thought to make someone stupid, but John didn't seem too stupid. He was practical and level-headed. Patient, unlike Sherlock.

"Fine. Maybe I don't _hate_ him," Sherlock admitted. He really didn't have much better of a reply. Yes, he'd yelled the exact words "I hate you" to Mycroft in a heated argument a few times, but John's words had him rethinking it. Mycroft had been good to him these past two days, better than he could have been. He could have been worse, like Father.

"Does he look out for you?" John asked in a voice that was probably meant to sound stern.

"Yes. Yes, I guess," Sherlock said, turning away to pout.

John leaned forward and pressed his chin to his knees as he tried to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Are you used to saying that or something?"

"In a way. We fight sometimes, and I say it."

"You need to apologize," John scolded. "Today."

Sherlock turned and faced John. "I might. But only because I trust your judgement."

John grinned in response and patted Sherlock's arm, clearly reenacting the motion from somewhere. "Just be nice. I bet you love your brother really."

Instantly, Sherlock pulled a disgusted face. "I don't love Mycroft. I don't love anyone."

Then John got that face that made him seem like he had years of experience when it came to life and knew everything about the things Sherlock struggled with. The look was almost a smile, but his eyes held a certain sympathy, and his eyebrows went up and his head went to the side. "Of course you love people, Sherlock. My grandfather used to say that you have to love something, or else you'll die from the inside out. I'm not really sure what he meant by it, but he always said stuff like that." Past tense. He was dead, then. And John seemed okay. Maybe it would take a strong spirit like his to cope, if it comes down to it. "How's your mum, by the way? I asked my mum about cancer last night, and she says that lots of people survive it."

Sherlock appreciated the optimism. He smiled softly. "She might. I think she can."

Returning the smile, John leaned back against his palms. "Mycroft, then? That's a weird name," John then said, and Sherlock couldn't help but giggle.

"I don't know which is worse: Mycroft or Sherlock," he added, and then John was laughing, too. They stayed like that for a while, just saying things to make the other laugh. It got to the point where everything was funny and it didn't matter what was said. Sherlock found that he enjoyed the feeling. He'd never had someone who understood him and contrasted from him so much at the same time before. No one ever really got him, and those who did were people like Mycroft, and he was nothing like John.

When it was finally time to go, Sherlock felt his stomach drop at the thought of seeing his mother. He didn't know what to expect. John must have noticed because as they were saying goodbye, he asked if he was okay.

"I'm fine. I'm just nervous," he responded, giving no further explanation.

Without hesitation, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle and squeezed. Sherlock, unsure of what to do, held his own hands by his side for a few seconds before finally just leaning into him. He would never get used to this, no matter who it was, it seemed.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock."

There was no possible way he could be sure about that, and Sherlock knew it, but it reassured him anyway, and he took the words as gospel. He nodded and smiled before running off back home. Hopefully Mycroft had come up with a plausible enough lie that he wouldn't be in trouble for not coming home immediately. He always did, seeing as he'd be in just as much trouble as Sherlock. Then again, Mycroft was so good at lying that it was scary.

When he approached the house, he knew he'd have time before he finally found everyone, thanks to the unnecessary size of it. He could hear talking coming from the drawing room, so he decided to look in other places first, just in case.

After about five minutes, Sherlock finally sighed to himself and walked in to the room with the voices, which he could now make out one to belong to Mycroft, his posh voice floating through the air delicately and carefully, each word thoroughly planned.

Sure enough, Mycroft was sitting with Mummy, and they were smiling. It wasn't until what Sherlock expected, but he would gladly take that over what he had expected to see. But it still wasn't completely normal. It shouldn't be, anyway. It would be a long time before things reverted back to the way they were, and Sherlock wasn't sure which he preferred.

Mummy smiled warmly at Sherlock and gestured for him to come over. He went quickly, and she pulled him into her lap and rested her chin atop his head with her hands gracefully draped around him. It was probably how she used to hold him when he was younger, not that Sherlock could remember, but he had a strange sense of nostalgia, regardless.

"Where on earth were you, Sherlock?" she asked with no real anger behind it. Speaking of which, where was Father?

"Walking," he replied.

"Sherlock and I went to the park early this morning to do some people-watching," Mycroft added, his ankle resting on top of his knee and his back against the cushion of the couch. He actually looked relaxed for once.

She sighed. "I told you that's rude, Myc, why are you teaching him? I don't want another incident like the one you had with Mrs. Richardson when you were six."

Mycroft grinned and laughed soundlessly at the idea. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What incident?"

"You don't want to know nor need to know," Mummy said, laughing herself.

"The Richardsons came over to dinner one night, and they hate me," Mycroft began anyway, and no one stopped him. "All night long, all I heard was, 'You need to do something about that boy,' and 'I know a great psychologist,' so, naturally, I call out Mrs. Richardson on the fact that she's pregnant with another man's child. It wasn't funny then, and it might not even be funny to you now because you had to have been there, but it's funny now to look back on."

So Mycroft wasn't always so prim and proper. Sherlock would be sure to find out where he stopped and make extra sure it doesn't happen to him.

Sherlock smiled. "I won't do that. Probably. The Richardsons sound like they had it coming."

Mycroft looked surprised for a few seconds, but then he realized that Sherlock dealt with the same thing even more often than he had. He'd heard at least twice more of it in his six years than Mycroft had in his thirteen.

"Yes, I suppose they did," Mummy said. "But that doesn't mean you can do it randomly like that. Just keep it to yourself." She looked at the time. "You two need to get ready for dinner," she said, releasing Sherlock to the ground once again. "I love you, boys."

"I love you, too, Mummy," Mycroft said, the words rolling off his tongue naturally.

For Sherlock, it was harder. He'd always had trouble with those words, and he didn't know why. "Love you," he ended up mumbling. Not very heart-warming, he knew, but at least he said it.

He trailed behind Mycroft in the hall and considered what John had said. He now knew how quickly a life could be turned upside down and threatened so quickly, and the reality was that Mycroft could die at anytime, and he would remember Sherlock as the little brat who bothered him and hated him. That was how Sherlock imagined it, at least.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, and his brother hummed in response, but kept walking, to tell Sherlock to keep talking. "I don't hate you."

He snorted. "No? That's good to know. I love you, too, Sherlock."


	6. Another Head Aches, Another Heart Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "All These Things That I've Done" by The Killers. I always think of Mycroft when I hear it, and I make myself sad, which I thought was fitting because this chapter turned out to be a lot sadder than I intended. Not really in a way that makes you cry, but in that "poor baby" kind of way.

On Sherlock's seventh birthday, he woke up feeling no different than he always did. It was because seven was not a landmark age, despite it apparently being a "lucky" number, which Sherlock had been reminded of several times. But he saw nothing special about it, and he had decided that it was just another day. 

He was the first to wake up in the morning, or, at least, the first to come downstairs. Mycroft had probably been awake for a while now, but he wouldn't leave his room unless he looked like the poster child of excellence that he'd been raised to be, and it would likely stick with him for the rest of his life, which Sherlock didn't see to be a very positive thing. He would always be pressured to be perfect, and especially at age, which would be closing in on fourteen in a couple months, he wouldn't do well with any flaws he discovered. Sherlock was glad he wasn't the one who had to do that. He was perfectly content with being in someone else's shadow for now. 

Sherlock had made his own bowl of cereal and managed to pour the milk without spilling it, thankfully. Just as he was almost halfway through it, he heard the sound of Mycroft's shoes clicking against the linoleum floor and came walking into the kitchen with his confident gait as he was tucking in his shirt. 

He offered a tired smile, and Sherlock couldn't help but not believe it was because he'd just woken up. From what Sherlock could tell, he hadn't been sleeping well, and he'd changed in the past year, anyway. He didn't smile as much and was more mature, which Sherlock hadn't thought had been possible. 

"Happy birthday," he said. Sherlock shrugged in response. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "What is it?" 

"Nothing. I just don't think it's important."

"Of course it's important, Sherlock. Well, now that you mention it, it is a rather weird thing, birthdays. But it's a good opportunity to be selfish, you have to admit." He placed his hands on the counter behind him and leaned back. "Did you make yourself breakfast?" 

Sherlock glanced down and then back up. "It's not that difficult to pour things in a bowl. I don't need to do anything different just because I'm seven."

Mycroft crossed his arms. "So you're really just going to completely ignore your birthday? Is it because Mummy isn't . . . showing any signs of getting better at the moment so we won't be able to do anything extravagant? Because we can do something after school, if you want, even if it's just us."

He liked the idea, actually, but John knew it was his birthday and had told him to come to their place after school. Sherlock looked down and smiled at the idea. "No, it's okay," he said. 

"Because you're seeing your friend?"

Sherlock jerked his head up and stared. He was surprised, but at the same time, he was surprised he hadn't brought it up earlier. "How did you know?" 

"It's fairly obvious. I find it kind of endearing, though. What's his name?"

"John," Sherlock mumbled. 

"Where did you meet him?"

"Do you know that woodsy place out there?" Mycroft nodded. "Well, if you go far enough, it leads to another neighborhood, and I go to the middle, and usually no one else is there, but one day, the you told me, you know, John was there."

Mycroft seemed interested, which could potentially be a bad thing. Now he had his arms resting on the table and was leaning forwards instead of backwards. "How old is he?" 

"He'll be nine in a few weeks."

"Oh, good. I was afraid you'd befriended an adult man."

"I'm not stupid," Sherlock defended. 

"We're going to be late. Come on," Mycroft said, handing Sherlock his things for school before picking up his own bag and swiftly putting over his shoulder. 

The walk to school wasn't short and was never eventful. Their home was isolated, and for the most part, that was what most of the walk consisted of, spread out surroundings that Sherlock had seen too many times to find interesting. He saw more people when they got closer to school, but no one ever talked to him. 

Mycroft had walked Sherlock to school for a year, after a bad encounter he had one morning where he got his first black eye, which he'd had to go through his whole day with. When Mycroft had come to get him that day, he took one look at him and said, "I know how to hide those from Mummy," and he'd walked with him ever since. 

"Does John go to your school?" Mycroft asked. 

Sherlock frowned. He'd been dreading this question. John wouldn't be going to a private school with expensive uniforms, and he probably never will, except when he gets into university on a scholarship which Sherlock knee he could get. 

"No."

"Public school?"

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped. "It doesn't mean he's not smart."

"I didn't say he wasn't, Sherlock. I was just curious. Besides, going to a private school doesn't make you any smarter than the public school children. Just look at the idiots we have to deal with." That earned him a small smile from Sherlock. "Here we are. Happy birthday again, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded and went inside the building quickly because he knew that Mycroft was still watching him and didn't want him to see that he couldn't do anything about what happened to Sherlock inside the building. 

He hated school. Hated everything about it with a fierce passion. He hated that he had to wake up early every day, even when doing so was not good for growing children; he hated the condescending staff; he hated having to sit still in the same spot for hours. But he hated the children most of all. 

Going as fast as he possibly could, Sherlock made his way to the back of the room where he usually sat, keeping his eyes fixated on his shoes as he rushed back. Somewhere along the way, he found himself tripping over an outstretched foot, and judging by the laughter that immediately followed, it wasn't an accident. Sherlock got back up and continued walking, even faster now, slumping in his seat when he finally got there and tried to make himself smaller. 

He wished John went here. It was nice to have someone, to not be alone all the time. Sherlock still loved to have alone time, but he didn't like being lonely. But still, he hated school, regardless of who didn't go there. 

His teacher, Mrs. Lockett was away on maternity leave for the rest of the year, which was a shame. Sherlock had liked her. She had encouraged him to answer questions Sherlock knew the answer to, even if there were already hands in the air and Sherlock's was down, which it always was. She had also always asked him how he was, to which he'd always mumbled "Good," even when he wasn't (she would slip him chocolate when she knew he was sad). But the best part was that she would stop him from being bullied. 

Mrs. Lockett was being replaced by the dreadful substitute Ms. Ragan, a bitter old woman who no one really liked, but always seemed to be amused when she called out Sherlock on the tiniest things. There was something she didn't like about him, and he could respect that, but he really just wanted to be home already, celebrating his birthday with John.

Class was boring, and Sherlock was more focused on paying attention and staying awake than he was actually paying attention. He was brought back to reality when it was announced that they were doing something that involved partners, and Sherlock internally groaned. While everyone else was rushing to find a partner, Sherlock sat and waited, deciding that he would take whoever got left over as a partner. 

The left over person turned out to be Madeline Fischer, a girl Sherlock had never spoken to before. When she realized that there was no one else but Sherlock, she instantly looked very unhappy. 

"But Ms. Ragan, I don't want to work with him!" she exclaimed, stomping her feet dramatically. Sherlock, who had already started on the work, pretended not to hear. 

"Then join another group, Madeline, I don't want to hear it from you today."

So she did, and Sherlock did it alone, which he would have preferred anyway, had it not been for the circumstances involved that caused him to have to do it alone. To help him forget it, he just kept reminding himself of getting to go home. It's what he usually did. If he could get it through his head that it would end sooner or later, he could get through the day. 

Sherlock always felt a great rush of happiness when he heard the bell and got to leave. He was always one of the first out of the building. Mycroft was there, standing straighter and holding his head higher than any of the parents waiting for their kids. Sherlock had heard mothers whisper about Mycroft, calling him names such as "snotty little brat", but he didn't seem to care. 

He had to stop himself every time from running to Mycroft because that would insinuate that something was wrong, and if Sherlock kept his day to himself, Mycroft would find out anyway, but wouldn't say anything about it. At the end of Sherlock's first ever day of school, which hadn't gone well, he had run from the door with tears in his eyes, and Mycroft had carried him home, but he was accustomed to it now and could control his emotions. 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and instead of asking about his day, he let his wall down for a split second and gave a quick sympathetic look and took his bag, carrying his in one hand and his own in the other. 

"Are you going to see John straight away?" he asked. 

"Yes," Sherlock answered. 

Mycroft must have been an even lonelier child, Sherlock realized. He hadn't had any older sibling looking out for him, and he definitely didn't have a John. 

"Very well, then. I'll tell them that you've gone for a walk. Unless you want me to tell them about John?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly, and Mycroft glanced down at him. "I don't want anyone knowing about him yet." 

"Okay," Mycroft said and separated from Sherlock to go inside. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock said. "If Father's been drinking again, just stay out of his way this time. Please."

Mycroft stopped walking and used a thin finger to brush a reddish brown hair out of his face that had fallen when he tilted his head down. The he took the same hand and pulled down the sleeve of his jacket further as if the bruises on his wrists and arms were visible to everyone. "Yes, I know. I will."

Sherlock nodded and then took off, hoping Mycroft meant what he'd said. 

When he arrived, John was standing with a grin and his hands behind his back. Sherlock held his head to the side in amusement. "What do you have?" 

John moved his hands and held them out. "I got you a cupcake for your birthday," he said, proud. "It's whipped icing because I think the buttercream is gross, and I figured you'd think the same. I don't know why, though."

Sherlock blushed and took it, smiling. "Thank you," he said quietly. 

"Are you having a party, then?"

"No," Sherlock said, licking the icing off before eating the actual cake part. "I haven't had a birthday party since I was little. I can't even remember it, I was so young."

John frowned. "Will you ever have one?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't think so. Mycroft hasn't had one since he was a baby, either, and he'll be fourteen."

"Well, I'm having a party when I turn nine in two weeks." He held up two finger for emphasis. "You have to come. You can bring Mycroft."

"I would like that. If it's okay with your mum."

"It is. I told her all about you when I got her to make the cupcakes, and she wants to meet you, anyway." He frowned. "My sister thinks you're imaginary, so we need to prove her wrong, too."

Sherlock smiled again. "I'll be there. Thank you again, John."

John grinned back. "You're welcome."


	7. Loose Bolt Of A Complete Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, long time no see. Sorry. I have no excuse. I was just lazy.
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Disloyal Order Of Water Buffaloes" by Fall Out Boy. (Yes, I am secretly a thirteen-year-old emo kid at heart.)

It was another sleepless night in the Holmes residence. Sherlock had been kept up because of both the excitement of John's birthday and the bad memories created today that kept coming back and replaying in his mind. He knew that it wouldn't even matter in the morning, but that didn't stop him from thinking about it.

He still needed to ask Mycroft to take him to John's house and to maybe let them meet. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and he'd rather it be a planned meeting than coincidentally. And it would be hard to write off a nine-year-old as a horrible person, even for Mycroft. Sherlock could hear him still moving around in his room down the hall, more than likely pacing, for whatever reason. It must help him to sleep, Sherlock assumed, and crept out of his own room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

Padding across the hall as quietly as possible, Sherlock knocked softly on Mycroft's door once before walking in, making sure the door didn't creak. Mycroft looked at him and jumped subtlety when he walked in, but he looked confused when he saw Sherlock.

He glanced at the time. "What is it?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing his legs, obviously trying to look as distinguished as he could in pajamas and with his hair not gelled. When it wasn't styled, it was just as unruly as Sherlock's, only it was less curly, thinner, and there wasn't as much of it.

Sherlock shrugged and sat beside Mycroft without thinking, like it was a natural thing to do that needed no premeditating. "I need to ask you something."

"At almost midnight?"

"Yes. I would have asked earlier, but you've been hiding up here all day."

Mycroft had a hand pressed against the bed behind Sherlock, his way of having an arm around him, apparently. "Yes, well . . ." He didn't know what to say. "What do you need, Sherlock?"

"It's John's birthday in two weeks, and we've been invited to his party, and you have to take me."

Mycroft seemed to dissect the information. "We've been invited? Don't you mean you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John said that you can come, too. Didn't you say you wanted to meet him?"

"Yes, I do want to. I suppose I'll take you." Sherlock grinned, and next thing he knew, Mycroft had lifted him slightly and moved him against the headboard of the bed. "Did you want to talk about today? I understand it wasn't a particularly great day at school. Although you must have had a good time with John, since you had icing on your chin and mud on your shoes because you forgot it rained shortly before you went." He added a glare, although he wasn't completely serious about it, to the end.

Sherlock kind of wanted to talk about it, but he didn't want to at the same time. Mycroft knew anyway, though, and he wasn't like those stupid, condescending therapists who pitied him and didn't try to help him. He would listen and maybe give a few words of advice and comfort, but nothing that would make him feel like he was being talked down to.

"It wasn't anything big. Just a lot of small things added up together," Sherlock said as he stared at his hands and stretching his legs out across the bed like Mycroft, although his weren't nearly as long. Mycroft owed his height to his legs, anyway.

"What kind of small things?"

So Sherlock told him. He told him about being tripped, about being isolated from everyone else, about the whispers of "freak" he always heard, which was sometimes intentionally hissed at him. His voice got tighter with every word he said, so he eventually stopped talking and tried to cease the burning in his throat.

Mycroft, who obviously noticed, put his arm around him for real this time and pulled him a fraction closer to him. "Do you ever reply?"

"Yes, but I just end up in trouble, and it doesn't stop them."

Mycroft was quiet for a while, too, with only the sound of Sherlock sniffling against Mycroft's shoulder filling the room. "There's nothing you can do, really, Sherlock. Not now, anyway."

"Were you treated that way?"

"I doubt this will be any consolation, if not make you feel worse, in which case, I'm sorry, but I still have to deal with that. Nothing really changes. The insults just get more vulgar, although 'freak' seems to stick around, and the punches hurt more. But I personally believe that I care less now than I did back then."

Sherlock mainly just wanted to listen to Mycroft's voice and not have to speak anymore, or interact, for that matter. Mycroft turned his face with one hand and wiped a tear with the other, but Sherlock jerked away and hid his face in the fabric of Mycroft's shirt again.

"Sherlock," he said in a voice that sounded sad, although he was also smiling warmly. "I wouldn't have made you talk about it if I'd known you were going to cry." Sherlock still said nothing. Mostly because he had nothing else to say, and if he did, his voice would sound pathetic and even younger than he already was. Mycroft sighed. "You're waiting for me to invite you to sleep in here tonight, aren't you?"

Sherlock paused before slowly nodding against him.

"All right. Just for tonight, I suppose, can't hurt. You haven't done this in years." The last time being when he was four and had a terrible nightmare about waking up one morning to find that everyone else was dead. Mycroft, Mummy, Father. It had felt so real that he'd needed to be reassured by having at least one of the three with him, and Mycroft made the most sense because Father would have turned him away without even listening to what the dream had been about.

Mycroft was still talking while Sherlock cried himself out, mostly things he'd researched, and he didn't stop until he knew that Sherlock was totally asleep. It was his version of a lullaby, really. It took Mycroft a little longer to fall asleep, but he did eventually, joining Sherlock.

xxx

On the day of the party, Sherlock woke himself up quite early, considering it was a Saturday and he was a child. But of course Mycroft had beat him to it and was already sitting in the kitchen, irreproachable and, had it been anyone else, looked like he was dressed for the biggest job interview of his life.

"When is this party?" he asked before Sherlock could even leave the doorframe.

"It starts at twelve," Sherlock informed him, and Mycroft nodded.

"Will there be a lot of other children there, do you think?"

"Maybe. John's a likeable person."

Mycroft frowned. "Just as long as I don't have to deal with them," he said. "Did you get anything for him?"

Sherlock jumped from his seat and went searching for his present, answering with an "Of course," and after Mycroft heard some rustling that he didn't bother to see what he was into, Sherlock returned with a box neatly wrapped in plain light blue paper, John's favorite color, apparently. He held it up to Mycroft and set it on the island when it got too heavy.

"It's a gaming system, isn't it?"

"This is why everyone hates buying gifts for you," Sherlock said instead of saying yes.

Mycroft smiled. "Well, John won't know until he opens it."

"That's true. Don't tell him," Sherlock warned.

"What kind of person do you take me for, Sherlock, honestly?"

"You've done it before!"

"Yes, but that was Kyle, and he called you a freak. Believe me, that wasn't the only misfortune I brought him that day."

Kyle had been one of their father's coworkers children, and neither of them wanted to go, but he'd made Sherlock and Mycroft go to his eighth birthday two years ago. Kyle had tried to talk to Sherlock because he'd never met him before, Sherlock decided he didn't care for him, words were exchanged (or rather, Sherlock said things while Kyle stood with a dumb look on his fat face), Kyle called him a freak. Mycroft heard. Kyle had a bad birthday.

"John isn't like that," Sherlock simply said.

"I would guess not, since you like him so much. Although I'm not too thrilled to be going into this neighborhood. It's dangerous."

Not necessarily. It was just different from what they were used to, where everything was less lush and wasn't handed directly to you, and Mycroft, not knowing any better (but Sherlock definitely wouldn't say that), jumped to the conclusion that it was a dangerous place riddled with guns and gang violence.

They went around the forest, which Sherlock complained was incredibly inconvenient for both of them, but Mycroft wasn't the type to go into any kind of forest. Nothing that would get his shoes dirty, not even when he had other pairs identical to the ones he had on right now.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's hand before they entered the neighborhood in which John lived so they wouldn't look as suspicious. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he let him be protective because it was in his nature to be so and probably always would be.

Sherlock knocked on the door a few times, and it opened almost instantly, the sounds of other kids soon coming within earshot.

"Sherlock, you came!" John exclaimed as they walked in, running up to them. He shared a look with Sherlock before looking up at Mycroft slightly leaning against the doorframe in what looked to be admiration, which Mycroft couldn't understand coming from anyone, let alone a kid he'd never met. "Hi," he said softly with a grin.

"Hello," Mycroft said in an awkwardly tight voice, but he didn't seem to dislike John, much to Sherlock's relief.

"You're tall," he noted.

"Yes, I suppose I'm slightly above the average height for a person my age."

He giggled, but Mycroft didn't see what was funny. "You and Sherlock always sound so smart."

Then Mycroft was smiling. It was like John knew what to say in order to get on his good side, but Sherlock forgot that John didn't think like that. He wasn't manipulative. When he said something like that, he meant it.

The party went on. Mycroft had been afraid Sherlock wouldn't get on with the other children, or he would be left out completely, but John willingly spent the entire time by his side, leaving the other kids to talk amongst themselves. It wasn't even out of pity. Sherlock knew when someone only talked to him because they felt bad for him, and this wasn't one of those times.

Sherlock was especially pleased that John and Mycroft got along. He assumed Mycroft would have a horrible time and look bored and miserable the whole time, but he smiled at John and spoke to him occasionally, John hanging onto his every word and looking at him with that look neither Sherlock nor Mycroft understood.

They met John's mother. She was built like John, short and stocky, and she had the same ash blonde hair and constant smile, but it was a worn smile, and grey hairs accumulated in certain places on her head. But she liked Sherlock, and she held his cheeks in her hands and commented on how beautiful he was to Mycroft, as if he were his father.

He wasn't used to adults liking him. Actually, he wasn't used to having kids like him, either. But here were the Watsons, in all their damaged demeanors, treated him like he was normal and extraordinary at the same time. He really didn't know how to respond to it all, at least not show it with the amount of gratitude he felt.

John appreciated every present he received, finding the person who sent it in the crowd with his eyes, making eye contact with them, and thanking them genuinely, all while smiling. He gasped when he opened Sherlock's gift, and after showing everyone, he got off the chair he'd been sitting at and hugged Sherlock tightly. Sherlock actually put his arms around him this time, although not nearly as tight as John had him.

The only other person John hugged for the remainder of the party was his mother, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel special.

Sherlock noted that Mycroft wasn't as adamant about keeping Sherlock close to him on the walk home, but he didn't dare mention it, or Mycroft might do it just to spite him.

"Do you like him?" Sherlock asked.

"Who? John?"

"Obviously. Don't play dumb."

Mycroft smiled, despite Sherlock trying to sound serious. "Sure, I like him. He likes you and isn't mean to you, though, and that's what truly matters."

"Do you really think he likes me?"

"Obviously," Mycroft echoed, and then with a squeeze of Sherlock's hand, added, "Don't play dumb."


	8. Call It Another Lonely Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I did a time jump, so this story will not be near as long as I originally intended. I don't even know what brought this on. I just started writing and was like, "Screw it, I'm jumping a few years ahead," thus creating this chapter. I think I'm just going to do the flashbacks every chapter or so.
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Go Your Own Way" by Fleetwood Mac.

Summer holiday meant two things: Sherlock would get to go home for a few days (a whole week if he was lucky), and then he and Mycroft would be shipped off to their tight-lipped, supercilious grandparents down in Sussex.

The sudden transfer to boarding school didn't throw them off as bad as they feared it would. Sherlock was still the most intelligent in his class, and so was Mycroft (of course). But that didn't mean Sherlock liked it any more than his former school. He didn't know about Mycroft, but he managed to dislike it even more.

For one, he didn't have Mycroft or John to go to after he had a bad day. Mycroft, now sixteen, was practically an adult now and was almost always busy, and they barely saw each other anymore because of the school choice, unless they counted the visits to Sussex, and neither of them did. The only thing they bonded over there was how miserable they both were.

It was Sherlock's understanding that Mycroft wasn't having a very good time at all, maybe even worse than Sherlock. Before, he hadn't really had any friends, but no one really messed with him, either. Here it was worse. Except he liked going to their grandparents' home. He'd kept quiet about the reason, but Sherlock wasn't stupid; he could figure it out, even if no one else could.

There was this boy, Liam, who came by every so often to clean the house or mow the lawn or anything else they'd pay him to do. Once he'd had to babysit Sherlock because apparently Mycroft wouldn't be sufficient enough. (He'd claimed he was "busy" and nearly begged until they called Liam to come over.)

Maybe it was the way Mycroft would blush bright red when he so much as looked at him, or maybe it was the strange way Liam spoke when Mycroft was in the room or when he was speaking to him, low and flirty, with a smile he certainly didn't use for their grandparents. But the real selling point for Sherlock was when he caught them kissing in the backyard.

Sherlock supposedly didn't know yet and wasn't supposed to. No one was, and he didn't blame him. Sherlock knew that it wouldn't go over well for Mycroft if anyone in their family found out, and Sherlock didn't think he could ever hate someone so much that he would out them and subject them to a family like his, and he didn't hate Mycroft; they'd established this.

Mycroft was smiling subtly towards his knees on the car ride there, drumming on his thigh lightly.

"Why are you so happy?" Sherlock asked. He knew, of course, but he always was testing to see if Mycroft was ready to tell someone.

Mycroft looked up and (unsuccessfully) tried to look like his usual, complacent self. "Sorry if I'm not unhappy enough for your liking."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was just asking. You've never been happy to go to Sussex before."

"Well, it's good to get out of school for a while, isn't it?" he said, and Sherlock knew it wasn't a complete lie. "No matter how horrid it is over there."

"What about that boy with the long blonde hair? What's his name? You seemed friendly with him."

That time Mycroft's smile really left his face, and he shot daggers in his direction, but he knew he couldn't get angry in front of the driver, so he merely attempted to remove the anger from his voice, making it sound overly sweet and fake. "Liam, you mean? He's very nice. I guess we have become friends over the years."

"Why does he pick you up when he hugs you? John's never done that. Are friends supposed to do that?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. Liam doesn't serve as the paragon what every friend should do. Every friend is different. And he's very tall and strong. He does it because he can."

"He must be very strong if he can lift you up," Sherlock said. He was done trying to scare Mycroft and now just wanted to bother him, so he changed the subject to Mycroft's recent bit of weight gain, and Mycroft looked relieved for once at the mention of it.

"Yes, he must be. Although I'm really not that big," Mycroft said, sharpening his voice on the last sentence. And he really wasn't fat. 

The first week after it happened, no one ate anything, and Sherlock, under the command of his aunt who'd stayed with them, slowly got back into his regular eating schedule, which wasn't all that much in the first place. Mycroft, however, turned out to be an emotional eater and overate a bit, resulting in Mycroft gaining some weight, which he pretended not to care about, but Sherlock knew how much he hated it. 

He'd just put on a few pounds and had a chubbier stomach that pushed over his belt a few inches and thicker thighs that spread out when he sat down. But that didn't stop Sherlock from picking at him and purposely grating on his nerves. 

Sherlock supposed it was a good thing to get out of the house for a few months, though. It definitely beat being at home with only their father. Things were different now. Much different. Like Sherlock had been put into a new body and placed with a new family. They were broken, and he wasn't sure if they could ever get it back.

xxx

_It was cold the day their mother died. Sherlock remembered forgetting a jacket in the chaos of rushing to the hospital, and he shivered in the car until Mycroft gave him his jacket, mechanically, his face like a stone. Sherlock kept it on for a while, but gave it back to Mycroft once they arrived._

_Neither of them were even really thinking about what they were doing; they were just trying to be good to each other right now. Mycroft, who tended to take control of bad situations, didn't bother trying to speak to Sherlock. Instead, he just sat in the waiting room with him, eventually pulling him onto his lap and pressing his cheek against his temple, gently rocking him back and forth._

_Sherlock had been too numb to react. Looking back, he wished he would have hugged him, because now he realized that Mycroft had been scared, too, and even though he had just turned fifteen, he still needed someone there when he felt this way._

_Then, their father appeared and called for Mycroft. Sherlock hadn't wanted him to go; he didn't want to be alone. But he slid off of his lap after Mycroft lightly kissed his cheek (a first) and went to his father. It must have happened, then, Sherlock decided, and now they were trying to figure out how to tell him. But even if he knew deep down, it still hit like a ton of bricks when they told him._

_The first thing he said after they told him was, "Where's Mycroft?", his voice barely above a shaky squeak._

_They had been separated from each other to be told, which Sherlock found to be a very stupid idea. He didn't want the comfort of the nurses and doctors, or the lack thereof from his father. He wanted Mycroft, who knew exactly what he was going through right now better than anyone else. He'd lost his mother, too._

_At first, his father brushed him off, claiming he didn't know where he was, and then he placed his fingers on his temples and looked away. Their aunt Patricia, his mother's sister, stopped her tears long enough to get angry and tell someone to "get the baby his brother." But then he walked in all on his own._

_Mycroft came in the room looking disheveled and empty. Sherlock would have described his eyes as 'lifeless', but he elected not to use such a word right now. Sherlock didn't cry until he was in his brother's arms again, borderline screaming and nearly punching Mycroft's shoulders._

_But no one noticed because that was how everyone in the room was acting. Mycroft was trying to be the calmest, running a cool hand through Sherlock's hair and shushing him softly and slowly, not really meaning for him to be quiet, but for comfort, as if to create the illusion that everything was okay. But it wasn't. Nothing was okay._

xxx

"Oh, Sherlock, darling, is that your hair or a the aftermath of a tornado?" Those were the first words he heard from his grandmother. Mycroft followed in behind him, and she looked him up and down and forced a smile, mentioning how much he'd grown. She'd meant it as an age remark, but when she saw how Mycroft looked down and then looked back up, standing stiffer, she knew she'd said the wrong thing. 

"It's nice to see you, Grandmother," Mycroft said, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder from behind so they looked like a functioning family. 

"You, too, darling. Why don't you and Sherlock head up and see yourselves to your room?"

Not ten minutes had passed, and she was already telling them to piss off. Fine. 

"Well," Mycroft said, setting his suitcase down once he had closed the door in their room, "that boy who always calls us the Dollangangers would certainly be having a laugh right now, wouldn't he?" 

Sherlock was propped up on his knees on the bed already, glancing out the window, his suitcase unopened and his shoes thrown across the room. "He's an idiot, anyway. It's not our fault his parents like his sisters more than him," Sherlock mumbled. "And before you look, Liam isn't here yet."

Mycroft turned and focused on unpacking his things, no doubt hiding a grin at the mention of his name. "Why would I care?" he asked quietly so his voice didn't betray him. 

"Because he's your boyfriend."

Immediately, Mycroft whipped around and shushed him. "He's not my boyfriend," he hissed. 

"You kiss him!"

He opened his mouth defensively and then closed it again. Defeated, Mycroft sat down, knowing there was no use in trying to cover up. "We kiss, yes, but we aren't in a relationship. We only see each other over the summer, and neither of us could do any long-distance sort of thing. I can barely do it face-to-face."

Sherlock was actually quite intrigued by their strange, strange relationship. "So you two do all of that disgusting couple stuff for three months, and then when it's over, you part ways and date other people, only to do it again next summer?" 

"Well, I haven't had another boyfriend, but yes, that's the general idea of it."

"How did you know?"

"How did I know what?"

"That you . . . like boys."

Mycroft smiled softly. "How do people know they're not gay? A lot of the time, you just know, although sometimes you can be confused, and that's okay. But you're too young to be fooling around with any kind of love, Sherlock. Just give it a few years."

There was some generally silent unpacking after their conversation, with only the smallest "Did you remember your toothbrush?" from Mycroft, and Sherlock would hold it up for him to see. 

Then, about thirty minutes later, Mycroft looked out the window and saw a familiar red bike and smiled. "Let's go outside," he announced. 

Sherlock sighed. "Just don't snog in front of me."

Mycroft laughed softly and gently nudged him to the side. "Snog? What a vocabulary you have there, little brother."

"What you and he do is not kissing at all."

Liam had his hair pulled back in a loose bun and was wearing dark green shorts and a white t-shirt that clung to his form and showed off his body. Mycroft turned the color of blood on white cloth and gawked for a few seconds, but he smiled awkwardly and walked up to him. Sherlock just watched. 

Of course, Liam picked up Mycroft (he couldn't lift him as high as he had last year, Sherlock noted, although last year he'd snuck up behind him and had done it bridal-style, which Sherlock remembered scowling at) and spun him around a bit, and upon realizing that they were alone, he pressed a quick kiss to his hawkish nose, and Sherlock heard a low mumble of, "Hey, baby," which made him wonder why Mycroft was so crazy about him. 

Sure, he was handsome enough and apparently a good kisser if he could please Mycroft, but he they didn't seem like each other's type. At all. In fact, it looked like something from a cheesy movie that would never happen in real life. 

Now Liam had Mycroft pressed against his chest and was running his fingers through his hair, and he focused his hazel eyes on Sherlock and looked at him like he had just noticed him, which he probably had.

"Hey, your little brother's out," he said. 

"He's been here the whole time," Mycroft said, pulling back but keeping his hands around his neck. 

"Oh. Guess I was distracted," Liam said with a half-smile and kissed Mycroft full on the lips this time. Sherlock pulled a face when it surpassed the ten-second mark and he saw someone's tongue. Thankfully Liam's hands wandered only to the small of Mycroft's back, although he was getting dangerously low. And the weirdest part was that Mycroft didn't try and stop him. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying being fondled. 

In person, Liam made Sherlock nervous. He didn't know what it was, really; there was just something about him that creeped him out. Not to mention Sherlock had an awful feeling that he could talk Mycroft into doing anything, even the things he didn't really want to do, deep down. Things he wasn't ready for, even if he was sixteen. 

After this summer is over, Liam would be starting his first year at university, yet another thing that made Sherlock feel uneasy about him and Mycroft "dating". Sure, Mycroft would be starting in only two years, but that was just it: they were two years. Even Sherlock at nine years old knew that was a long time for a relationship to last, especially one as sporadic as theirs. And eventually one thing would lead to another and bad things would happen. 

"How long will you be staying?" Liam asked. 

"For the summer, as always. Will you be around often?"

"If I get to see you all day, then hell yes."

Mycroft giggled. Actually giggled. Sherlock felt like he was watching something from another universe. Was this really his brother, or was it an alien from another planet that looked identical to him? The Mycroft Sherlock knew would have turned up his nose at a comment made like that if it was being said to someone else. 

Then they kissed again, and it was just as bad as the first time. 

Well, Sherlock had noted, it certainly wasn't summer until things went weird.


	9. Tears Are Something To Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE. I should just stop giving excuses at this point. I got around to this because I lost all my files and have rewrite a year's worth of unposted writing (long story, no pun intended), so there you have it.
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Voices Carry" by 'Til Tuesday. It actually fits eerily well.

Sherlock grimaced as he watched the scene play out in front of him. _Mycroft is so responsible_ , his grandparents bragged, _let him watch Sherlock for a while; he would never do anything disobedient in his life._ Sherlock just sat and tried not to look at the two teenagers sitting in an armchair meant for one person.

He and Mycroft had been in the same room for twenty minutes, and Sherlock had yet to see Mycroft's full face. It was too busy being fitting against the shape of Liam's as they kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed. Mycroft was on his lap with his legs swinging over the arm of the chair almost childishly with the way he swayed his feet back and forth.

Liam had both arms linked around Mycroft's waist and would stop only to say something like, "Where'd you learn to kiss like that?"

Where, indeed. Sherlock, for one, was definitely glad this was the first boy Mycroft had ever kissed in front of him because he wasn't sure if he could take seeing any more of it. Why did teenagers want to kiss so much anyway? He saw nothing desirable about it. It looked wet and clumsy, and if you really think about it, the whole process is just weird. One person decides to put their lips on another person's, and they move their lips together and sometimes use their tongues together. No, thank you.

John had been especially weird about kissing now that he was eleven. Mycroft explained how eleven, twelve, and sometimes thirteen were awkward ages for boys because they're about to go through puberty and have all these feelings they didn't have a previous explanation for. But John seemed to be a different kind of confusion, but wouldn't talk to anyone about it, not even Sherlock, which was stupid because he liked to think that he was considerate when it came to John. And it wasn't like Sherlock was too young because John was young, too.

Sherlock didn't look forward to puberty. He couldn't really remember what Mycroft was like beforehand, not his voice before it deepened or his face before it looked older. But little Mycroft surely didn't want another boy's saliva in his mouth, and that scared Sherlock a little bit because he wondered if he would want to do things like this and if he would want a boy or girl. Mycroft kept telling him he didn't need to think about that right now when Sherlock would ask about what it was like with Liam, but he couldn't help to think of it.

"Wait, I'm supposed to make dinner," Mycroft said, breaking from the kiss. He didn't want to ruin his "responsible" persona from his grandparents. That meant no more babysitting, which meant no more make out sessions. Sherlock was planning on not reminding him of dinner. Maybe next time he'd get away with it.

"So just order a pizza or something," Liam suggested with a shrug.

"That'll work, I guess," Mycroft said, sliding off his lap and standing on his feet, finally. "I'll go call. Maybe I might even sneak you a cigarette from my grandparents' secret stock pile," he said lowly with a half-smile, hands pressed firmly on the arm rests of the chair standing in front of Liam and pressing one final kiss to his lips.

When Mycroft was walking out, Liam said to Sherlock, "I'm going to marry him one day," he said, and Sherlock couldn't tell if he was serious or not.

"Hope not."

"What?"

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh."

xxx

Summer went the way it usually did after that, just with the addition of Mycroft being a weird, hormonal teenager. He spent less time with Sherlock, which was his biggest complaint. Because without Mycroft, who did he have to keep him company here?

Mycroft spent most of his time with Liam and with Liam's friends, if they were there with him. As far as Sherlock could tell, Mycroft barely spoke when he was around them, but they still seemed to like him. It made no sense. So, as a result, Sherlock had formed a hypothesis.

The kids at school didn't like Mycroft because they were in a place where they were judged on intellect, which Mycroft had a staggering and annoying amount of, so there were people who didn't like him because of that. But if a few people didn't like him, then their friends wouldn't like him by default, and if a person wasn't well-liked by a lot of people, then others would jump on the bandwagon and hate him just so they didn't get a bad reputation by befriending them.

It was the same thing with John. He didn't know how unpopular he was when they first met. Except this was John and probably would have befriended Sherlock anyway because he was too nice to everyone and had the perfect balance of wanting to please people and wanting to be a good person and do the right thing at the same time.

All was right in Mycroft's world right now, though. Sherlock noticed that he smiled more and was actually doing well with this whole human interaction thing everyone said he and Sherlock needed to work on. He had a social life. Usually Sherlock wouldn't put the words "Mycroft" and "healthy social life" in the same sentence unless he put "does not have a" in the middle of it.

His relationship seemed to be going perfectly, but then in the middle of July, Sherlock woke up to the sound of yelling. It was muffled, and he couldn't make out any words, but it was definitely yelling. They were both obviously male voices and it sounded like they were outside, nearly right out of the window of the room Sherlock was staying in.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered groggily, and he didn't receive an answer, so he groaned and spoke a bit louder. "Mycroft, d'you hear that?"

Still no answer. Sherlock got up and realized that Mycroft wasn't in bed, which told him all he needed to know. He sighed and went to the window, unlatching it and pushing it up.

Sure enough, there stood Mycroft and Liam. Mycroft looked angry, with his crossed arms and pursed lips, while Liam looked both apologetic and exasperated. Typical of Mycroft to make someone look that way, was Sherlock's initial thought, but then he started to listen to the argument.

"Last summer you said it was fine if I dated someone else, and now you're pissed at me," Liam was saying rather loudly.

"I'm pissed, as you put it, because you're just now telling me this. What I meant by that was that you could date someone else, just as long as you don't cheat on them with me."

Sherlock could see Liam's dramatic hand motions from here, and he would have been able to imagine them even if he hadn't seen the two. "I like you more, anyway. Look, I'll break up with him. I'll do it tonight if you want me to."

"No, I don't want you to, Liam, that isn't right. That's dysfunctional."

"We're not exactly the most functional couple, either, you know."

"Oh, we're a couple now?" Mycroft sounded even angrier now. Liam just didn't get Mycroft, and he likely never would. Sherlock could see it. Anyone could. Except Mycroft, which was ironic since he usually saw everything. They weren't compatible. Sherlock had the feeling that Mycroft, deep down, only liked him because he liked him first.

"I've been telling you for, what, two years now? We can be if you want to be." He reached over and wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's wrist. "I care about you. Fuck, Myc, I might even love you." He paused. "I'm sorry. I feel like I've apologized a hundred times now."

"Sixteen. You've said you're sorry sixteen times."

Liam shrugged. "Can't help it," he said, and then there was another stretch of silence. "God, your face is always so fucking unreadable. Say something. Talk to me."

Mycroft took his wrist back from him and crossed his arms after pushing a hair from his face with one finger, and Sherlock could just hear the little sigh he always did, that said, Why must I be subject to such stupidity?

"I accept your apology, Liam. But this can't continue."

"What do you mean? It was just last night that we—"

Suddenly Mycroft's words sped up and his voice had the subtlest shake to it, even with the slightest stutter, which sounded foreign when paired with Mycroft's voice. "I'm aware. Believe me. But you should be faithful to your boyfriend. I don't see why you like me more, but you'll get to see him more often."

"I don't care who I see more often. I don't care if I get to see you once a year and him all 365 days, babe, I just want you. You're smarter and funnier and better looking, and yeah, a lot of the time—okay, most of the time—I have no idea what you're talking about, but I love that about you. I can move to London, you know, once I'm done with school."

Mycroft shook his head. "No. Stop. You're not thinking this through, and you're getting swept up in your emotions. Boyfriend, Liam, you have a boyfriend."

"I want it to be you." His voice almost sounded to be pleading.

"I can't," Mycroft said so quietly that Sherlock barely heard him.

"You know what? Fine. Do whatever the hell you want. I don't give a fuck," Liam said rather loudly, and Sherlock could tell that Mycroft wanted to shush him so he didn't wake up their grandparents. "Maybe I'm not thinking this through because I forgot that you're always right and I'm always wrong."

"Liam, stop," Mycroft said, sounding like an irked mother calming down her child who was having a tantrum in public.

"Fuck you," he spat, and then stormed off.

Sherlock watched as Mycroft took a deep breath that sounded shaky, even from here. Mycroft had never liked confrontation. Sure, he could fend for himself and appear strong while the person was standing there, but he would be left shaking and breathing quickly once they were gone. Sherlock felt sympathetic when he saw him cover his face and start to cry and a bit guilty because if Mycroft was crying, then he thought he was alone, which meant Sherlock shouldn't be watching. But he did anyway.

He pretended to be asleep when Mycroft came back into the room, now with the tears stopped, only with a few uncontrollable sniffs here and there.

Sherlock wouldn't bring it up the next day, and he didn't, but he did sneak his way around getting Mycroft to vent to him about it a week later. They were sitting in the room, and Sherlock asked why he wasn't out with Liam, and he'd explained that they weren't together anymore.

"Why would you break up with him if he loves you?" Sherlock asked.

"He doesn't love me, Sherlock, he just thinks he does."

"You don't know that."

"It doesn't matter either way," Mycroft vaguely explained. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in confusion, causing Mycroft to sigh. "He already has a boyfriend. He's had one since January."

"And you didn't know?"

"No, just like the other boy doesn't know about me."

Sherlock wasn't sure if Mycroft looked more angry than sad or the other way around, but his voice sounded both.

"There are other boys, Mycroft. Ones better than him," he offered. That's what he should say, right? Apparently not.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head and holding back tears. "No. You don't understand, and I can't tell you."

Sherlock moved a bit closer and leaned his head against his arm. Mycroft, for some reason that Sherlock had his suspicions of, didn't really like to be held when he was being comforted, but he liked to hold someone himself.

"No, I probably don't understand. But you can't talk to anyone else, and here I am."

"Well, let's just say that I gave him something important, something I can never get back, and it hurts so much because him cheating on me tells me that he doesn't reciprocate the feelings I have for him. At least not completely. So this experience I had, that was supposed to be special and beautiful, is ruined now."

Sherlock didn't know what he was talking about, just like he'd said, but he sounded utterly heartbroken, and that was enough for him to go off on.

Sherlock remembered hearing their mother giving a fourteen-year-old Mycroft the You're Going To Do Great Things, You Don't Need Some Silly Boy speech once when she assumed they were alone, but Sherlock had been confused by it at the time. For one, he hadn't known that Mycroft was gay and that's what she meant by him not needing a boy, but he also didn't know that on that day Mycroft had been dumped for the first time.

It was another boy, Aaron, who had been secretly dating Mycroft. But when he was confronted about it by his friends, who treated it as a joke, Aaron went along with it and made fun of Mycroft with his friends within clear earshot of the boy who was sitting ten feet away.

"He's an idiot, anyway. And I saw him out there today while we were out there, and he didn't look happy, either. Also, he needs to work on his leering. Not very discreet," Sherlock offered to make him feel better the best he could.

"Oh, Lord, was he really?" Mycroft wouldn't have known because he had been pretending Liam wasn't even there, which was easy enough because he hadn't tried to speak to him; only stared.

"Yes. He looks so pathetic."

"That's stupid. What is there to leer at from behi—oh." Mycroft blushed a bright red, and Sherlock laughed, which at least made him smile.

"Well, you have gained weight. Your stomach isn't the only thing that gets bigger," Sherlock joked instead of trying to awkwardly comforting him anymore. It was better to act like himself and pick at him so he felt normal and not reminded of why he was sad with every hollow comment.

Mycroft slipped an arm around Sherlock and leaned back, and he looked better, even though there was still the slightest hint of heartbreak in his eyes. "I'll have you know that I've lost five pounds."

"I noticed."

"Thank you," he mouthed and squeezed him close to him for a second before releasing him again.

"You know, some of Liam's friends have been very happy to hear that you and he aren't together anymore," Sherlock said after a few seconds of silence. And it was true. Liam had these three friends who were also gay, and at this point he was surprised they didn't follow him around and kiss the ground he walked on. It was disturbing to see people liking Mycroft. He doesn't even have a real friend and never had, so summers were always so strange.

Mycroft scoffed but smiled, shaking his head. "The Mycroft Holmes fan club, you mean? I don't think they actually like me; they just like what they've heard from Liam, and he tends to exaggerate things," he said.

Sherlock didn't want to know what Liam told his friends. He couldn't quite understand what Mycroft meant by it, and he didn't care to.

"I don't think so, because if they were just going off of what he says, then they wouldn't still like you because Liam has been saying plenty of bad things." Mycroft looked up at Sherlock with wide, sad eyes and a slightly pouty mouth. Sherlock internally winced as he realized he probably shouldn't have said that, even if it was intended to make him feel better. "Sorry," he added quietly.

Mycroft looked like part of him wanted to ask what the bad things were and part didn't, and Sherlock wouldn't have told him even if he did ask, but ultimately the latter won, and it was left to his imagination, which could potentially be a bad thing because Mycroft always thought ahead for the worst possible scenarios.

Sherlock mostly overheard little insults like "fat arse", "bitchy ex-boyfriend", "fucker", and he heard Liam call him ugly a few times, and he fought the urge to remind him that wasn't what he thought a few weeks ago. In addition to that, though, he'd also heard a few very vulgar jokes that made Sherlock heat up with anger, and that was why he wouldn't tell Mycroft.

"It's alright. I should have expected that," Mycroft said. He sighed and lied back on the bed. "I don't know why people want so much of this kind of attention. I think I might truly prefer being ignored by people my age," Mycroft continued, laying back. "At least all Londoners hate me."

"I don't hate you, remember," Sherlock reminded him, leaning on his elbow beside Mycroft.

"Correct. Sorry. I don't hate you, either."


	10. Spoke With The Tongue Of Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took forever. I didn't even realize. I was scrolling through my stories and was like, "All right, I should really update—LAST UPDATED OCTOBER 2ND?!" So there's that. I'm going to finish this story, guys. If it takes me until I'm eighty, I'll do it. I just have to get through these hard bits first, then I know where it's going. My plans for this fic are absolutely evil i mean what
> 
> Happy whatever you celebrate, btw! I actually have a Christmas chapter planned next, and I wanted to get it up before the 25th, but my brain just wouldn't cooperate.
> 
> But hey, it'll be just like the actual Sherlock "Christmas" special and come late! (I'm trying to make myself feel better, work with me.)
> 
> Chapter title comes from "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2.

In the September after the summer spent in Sussex, their father started dating a woman, and apparently had been for a few months now. Her name was Mallory, and she was very young (twenty-six, according to Mycroft—Sherlock's guess had been twenty-five) and didn't have a motherly bone in her body. The whole idea of her made Sherlock cringe, especially at the thought that she was a ten-year-old girl when Mummy gave birth to Mycroft and a seventeen-year-old when Sherlock was born.

He wouldn't mind as much if they actually loved each other, but they didn't. Mummy didn't love him, either. But she at least loved Sherlock and Mycroft.

The boys suspected their father was going to marry her, for the sole purpose of not having to deal with his children alone, and she was going to accept because of the money and glamour involved. Either way, the house seemed drearier than ever, even with a young woman previously accustomed to only pretending to be of high-class flouncing around, enjoying all of the little trinkets of the house apart from the children. No, she didn't quite like the children. They were strange and quiet and seemed to hold resentment towards her, mostly because of their dead mother and how she was here to replace her. 

Sherlock saw her as a wicked stepmother already, like the ones in story books, except his father was still very much alive and just as wicked. It was days like this when Sherlock missed his mum more than ever and just wanted to cry and never stop. But he didn't do that. Instead, he listened to Mycroft explain her life story and commended himself internally when he got an unvoiced suspicion correct.

But Sherlock would be lying if he said he wasn't worried Mycroft knew what Sherlock thought about her and was making up things to make it seem like he was getting everything correct. He might do that, because he knows Sherlock's in one of his fragile moods and doesn't want him to cry.

Right now, the boys are home for the weekend, and she is wearing a new dress with some big, tacky earrings Mummy would have hated. She loved her small pearl earrings, never those dangling gold things that weigh more than she does. 

She looked at the boys with a nervous smile, not sure what to make of Sherlock still in his pajamas with his unkempt hair that hasn't been touched since he woke up (or since he came home from school on Friday, for that matter) and Mycroft looking like a twenty-year-old man with his hair gelled to perfection, even on a Saturday when he didn't have any plans. At first glance they seemed similar, but they weren't at all, and it was entirely too frustrating.

They were alike, but they were different. They fought daily, but at the end of the day Mycroft is like a parental figure for Sherlock. They liked a lot of the same things, but also made fun of each other for other things they liked. Mallory never knew what to say to them.

Mycroft ended up making breakfast for Sherlock, which consisted of two slices of toast with cream cheese on it because it's apparently the best way to eat it, according to Mycroft, and a cup of orange juice.

"I hate orange juice. It tastes like vomit," Sherlock said. He tested out the toast, and it wasn't _bad_ per se, but he wouldn't suggest for Mycroft to become a chef anytime soon.

Mycroft merely rolled his eyes, drinking his breakfast, which was just a cup of coffee. "You could have done it yourself."

Sherlock shrugged, drinking it anyway and directing the subject towards Mycroft instead. "Are you forgetting what happened last week? Where's your breakfast?"

"What happened last week?" Mallory inserted herself into the conversation, looking cautiously between the two boys as if asking them if she really wanted to know. With them, it could be anything. Even with Mycroft, who seemed like a good boy and actually was to a certain extent, but he was just as weird as his brother, only with less mischief. She often found herself wondering what he was like as a child, if he was like Sherlock and if Sherlock would become like him in time.

"Mycroft fainted during an English lesson."

Just as Mallory opened her mouth to say something that would match the alarm on her face, Mycroft cut in with a, "He's exaggerating. I got light-headed and had to lie down for a while."

Either Mycroft was understating everything back down so it wasn't made into a big deal or Sherlock's memory was fuzzy about the whole incident. He may have very well thought it to be of greater proportions what with how scared he'd been. He'd play it off as slight concern if anyone were to ask him after it happened, but when it was happening, he had two women who worked somewhere in the school coo over him and rub his shoulder and try to comfort him. Kindness from adults to Sherlock must have meant he looked to be panicking.

"Well, why aren't you eating?" she asked like she was dealing with two five-year-olds arguing over something petty while she had a headache.

"I am eating," Mycroft said, defensively. "I'm just eating _less_. I'm on a diet."

She stifled a sigh and pushed back an orange strand of hair behind her ear. She almost looks like she could be Mycroft's mother, with the bit of freckles and red hair and blue eyes, but the way they act around each other screams otherwise. Even if Sherlock hadn't been working on his deductive skills, he could have seen that much if he weren't related to them. John would be able to see it. John. Sherlock needs to go see him. They've just been seeing each other less and less because of stupid boarding school.

"Why are you on a diet?" she asked, totally uninterested.

Mycroft looks down and looks back up at her with a frown, clearly not wanting to say it out loud. It was fairly obvious why; she shouldn't bring it up like that. Mummy wouldn't have. She would have heard that he was on a diet and never mention it, but support him in little ways, like bringing up in a subtle way an opportunity for him to get some exercise without embarrassing him. 

This time she doesn't hold back a sigh when he doesn't answer and borderline glowers at him. Sherlock gets the feeling she really, _really_ doesn't like Mycroft, even more than she dislikes Sherlock (and that never happens), but the feeling is mutual, Sherlock has learned from listening to enough tirades about what a despicable person she is from Mycroft, so it's fine that she doesn't like him. 

He wants to see them have an all-out argument, honestly. Not just the wordless pantomime of hatred they exchange with glares. It'd actually be fun to watch.

"What are you doing today, Sherlock?" she asked him, a wide smile set on her face. He guesses she must have higher hopes for him, that he'll be kinder than the hormonal, moody teenager over there. Sorry, Mallory.

He peers at her from the rim of the cup. "I'm going to my friend's house, and I might be staying the night, if his drug dealing neighbor doesn't try and kill me first."

Her face falls a bit. "Oh. And you'll be going alone?" she asked, glancing at Mycroft to tell him to go with him. 

"I'm staying the night at a friend's house, too," Mycroft said over his coffee. He does that, like, every weekend, and yet he still claims to have no friends, so needless to say, Sherlock is both suspicious and curious, and he thinks Mallory is picking up on it, too. 

"Which friend?" she asked. 

"My friend, John Watson. He's very kind. Not as smart as me, but he's still probably smarter than most of the adults in his family," Sherlock interjected.

"And you, Mycroft?" she asked after regarding Sherlock's answer with a small frown. He's pretty sure the question was intended for Mycroft the entire time.

"Well, he doesn't have a drug dealing neighbor," he replied, the _and that's all that should matter_ implied. 

"Mm. At least there's that." And that's where she leaves it. Sherlock will have to prod at it later.

He's pretty sure Liam's out of the picture, so it can't be him (though they still remained off and on that entire summer, even after their supposed breakup). There's one gay guy at school who Sherlock's aware of, but he's not accepted it yet because of his homophobic family, so there's not a big chance it's him. It must be someone new, then. Or Mycroft could actually have a friend, but Sherlock knows that's not the case.

When Sherlock finished his breakfast, he hopped down from his chair and scrambled for his coat because quite frankly, he wanted out of there and to go see John for the first time since last week, which they only got to see each other for a few minutes. Mycroft appeared behind Sherlock with his coat in his hands as Sherlock was trying to find it. He wordlessly took it from him and put it on, and he headed for the door.

They walked for a few seconds silently, the scenery dull and unchanged as ever, until Sherlock finally said, "Do you have a new boyfriend?"

"I do," he answered without hesitation. Sherlock was fine with Mycroft being gay, so he'll talk about it with him immediately after it's brought up. Sherlock figured he's the only person Mycroft can talk to about it, so he'll sit and listen to his teen angst that sounds uncharacteristic and kind of funny on Mycroft for as long as he needs him to.

"He's not another Liam Absher, is he?"

Mycroft mused for a second. "Define what the requirements to be a Liam Absher are."

Okay, good, so it was confirmed that it wasn't him. 

"Stupid, hormone-driven teenage boy who likes to cheat on his boyfriends," he listed off. 

"Accurate," he laughed, then mused once again about this mystery boy. "Well, he's certainly not stupid, he's 100% monogamous, and he's not hormone-driven." His voice then drops to a mumble. "And he isn't a teenager."

Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes. "How old is he?"

"He's only twenty-five," Mycroft said, defensive. 

All Sherlock could do was blink at him. Where do you even find a gay, supposedly intelligent and loyal, twenty-five-year-old man when you're someone like Mycroft? He is one of those people who will likely never find "the one" until they're graduated from university and working because they're too grown-up for their age, but still. How does that even happen?

"What's his name?" Sherlock asked. 

"Arius."

Sherlock nearly scoffs at his pretentious name, but then he remembered that someone named their kids Sherlock and Mycroft and shuts up. "Is that . . . Italian?" He stretches out his guess because he actually has no idea; he's just hoping he gets lucky with it. 

"Greek," Mycroft corrects. "His parents are from Athens."

They reached where they go separate ways, and Sherlock said as they parted, "Have fun with your twenty-five-year-old . . ."

"Have fun with your eleven-year-old," Mycroft added sarcastically. It didn't matter that John was two years older than Sherlock, though. It's not like they're dating.

xxx

Sherlock sighed. "My brother's dating a man a year younger than my father's new girlfriend." He fell back on John's couch and took up nearly the whole thing with his long legs stretched across it, stopping exactly where John was sitting, a perfect fit.

"Hmm," John said. "Not sure if you're saying that your brother is dating someone really old, or if your dad is dating someone really young."

"Both," Sherlock whined. "I think they're going to get married."

"Who is?" John's hand found its way to rest on Sherlock's ankle, watching whatever he has on the television partially and listening to Sherlock at the same time. 

"My father."

"You don't sound very happy about it," John stated, and no, Sherlock was not happy about it, for many good reasons. 

Sherlock sighed and flexed his feet up and down, focusing on his shoes and the wet leaves that had attached themselves to it and wouldn't accept that they were unwanted and kept clinging onto him. "Well, they don't actually love each other. It will only be fighting and shouting and bad moods from here on out."

John's voice got very quiet, and it was almost as if he'd muted the telly, as well. "Are you upset about it because of your mummy, too?" He sounded afraid to ask, like it would be the wrong thing to say. 

Sherlock sat up and moved beside John. They were the same height now, much to John's embarrassment. He complains a lot about how he's shorter than most of the boys his age and some of the girls. Sherlock always hopes when he finds out he's grown an inch or two that John has done the same, but he'll probably end up shorter than Sherlock. 

He stared at the remains of the biscuits John's mother had given them a few minutes ago and thought hard about the question he'd been trying to keep in his subconscious. "In a way," he said, just as quiet. 

John sighed, clearly thinking he doesn't know what to say, but John _always_ knows what to say, even when he thinks he doesn't. "Is your dad's new girlfriend mean?"

Another tough question. It depended on how you looked at it. She didn't hit them or raise her voice, but she wasn't very kind, either. Sherlock explained that to the best of his abilities, stopping and getting frustrated at parts he couldn't describe well enough, but John was hanging onto every word and looked like he was understanding what he was trying to say. 

"So she's not like your mummy and she doesn't like you or your brother?"

"Basically. She doesn't much care for my father, either."

John leans back against the couch. "Adults are weird. They get married to people they don't even love."

"I'm just going to live with a person I know I will get along with," Sherlock said. Would they be married? He doesn't know. If they love each other, surely they'd get married, but someone who would be nice to him would suffice.

John snorted at the mere idea of someone not ever having an argument with Sherlock. Most of them were initiated by him anyway. In fact, if you put two Sherlocks in a room together, they would do nothing but argue.

"How are you going to go about that?"

Sherlock stretched his legs out on the couch again, but this time in such a way that he finds his head perched in John's lap.

"Easy. I'm just going to marry you."

John chuckles softly, and Sherlock almost gets scared, as he can't see what's funny about this idea; it's a perfectly reasonable idea that only makes sense. But then John pets his hair and bounces his knee lightly with Sherlock still on it as he nearly falls asleep on him, and they are content together like that.


End file.
